


Afterimage

by themarkerfairy, Verti



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: ......sort of, M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-07-27 01:01:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 64,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7597207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themarkerfairy/pseuds/themarkerfairy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verti/pseuds/Verti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hard to reboot the world without making a few mistakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

Ja’far stumbles in the door after returning from his first day in his new school.  He kicks off his shoes and walks down the hallway, before correcting himself and returning to tuck them neatly beneath the bench in the entryway.  He actually likes this family, and he doesn’t want to do anything that will shorten his time with them.  

His foster parents will not be home from work for another couple of hours, so Ja’far drops his over-full backpack at the bottom of the stairs and ventures towards the kitchen to make himself a snack.  

The day hadn’t been great, but it certainly could have been worse.  There was the usual sidelong inspection of “the new kid” throughout class and a bit of attempted teasing at lunch break.  Ja’far knew he was small for being in fifth grade, and it made him an easy target.  He did his best to ignore it and not let go of the tight hold he was learning to keep on his temper.  This school was in a much nicer neighborhood than others he had been to, and he doubted his classmates would be able to hold their own against him if he got into a fight. 

Ja’far finishes making his peanut butter sandwich and tucks it hurriedly up in a napkin to retreat to his room, grabbing his backpack as he scampers up the stairs.  He knows it’s silly, and he knows it is also probably not a good habit to bring food to his room, but he can’t help it.  Years of scavenging and then more years in child protective services have taught him to hide his food and eat it quickly.  

He crawls onto his bed and tucks himself into the corner, backpack against the wall next to him, and eats his sandwich in hurried bites.  He finishes and crumples the napkin into a ball, tossing it across the room and into the wastebasket.  

Ja’far is in the process of rifling through his backpack, trying to retrieve books to do his homework, when he sees something out of the corner of his eye and freezes.  He darts immediately for the switchblade he has tucked carefully under his pillow and rolls quickly to his feet.  

There is a man in his room, and Ja’far is not inclined to stop and question him.  He goes straight for a slash across the top of his thigh, aiming for the femoral artery.  The man starts and fumbles a bit, but makes no serious moves to defend himself.  Ja’far strikes, slashes, and meets… nothing.  He stumbles into the opposite wall of his bedroom clumsily, but recovers and spins on the balls of his feet.  

He eyes the man suspiciously.  Tall, strong, a confident stance.  Ja’far has taken down bigger, but he still doesn’t like the look of him.  He’s wearing stiff-looking robes adorned with decorative shoulder plates, has enormous golden hoops in his ears, and sports a foolish, purple ponytail nearly reaching the floor.  He looks suspicious, to say the least.  Ja’far whips forward again, this time aiming a bit higher for the soft flesh of the stranger’s belly.  

The man doesn’t even move this time, and for a good reason, apparently.  Ja’far passes right through him and bounces into the edge of his bed.  He stands there shaking, knife held in front of him, and doesn’t understand what is going on.  

“Christ, Ja’far!  All these years keeping you alive and this is how you repay me?”  

Ja’far’s suspicion only grows.  How does this man know him?  How did he even get in here?  He forces his shaking muscles to calm and continues to glare menacingly, puffing himself up as big as he can.  

“Who the fuck are you?”  He spits.

Rather disproportionate eyebrows scrunch together on the man’s face, and he looks genuinely hurt for a moment before his eyes light up in elation.

“You can see me!”  He steps forward and Ja’far scrambles back up onto his bed, standing with his back to the wall.  “Ja’far?”  The man stops.  He seems to finally take full notice of Ja’far’s hostility, and his face falls.  “Oh.  You don’t…. You don’t remember.”  He sits down hard on the rug.  Ja’far thinks it should make a thump, based upon his size, but it doesn’t.  

“I’m sorry I scared you.  I just thought…. I don’t know what I thought.  I spent all those years looking, and then I found you.  You never saw me, but then you did, and I thought maybe that meant you remembered.”  He drops his head in his hands, then quickly lifts it again.  “Oh! I know!”

Ja’far jumps as the man in front of him suddenly starts shrinking.  His clothes warp and his entire stature changes.  He is much smaller now, perhaps old enough to be in his first year of high school, but no more.  His eyes and face are rounded with youth, but his eyebrows are still enormous, his bizarrely violet hair obnoxiously long.  It’s undoubtedly a younger version of the same person, but Ja’far still doesn’t understand.

“No?”  The boy asks.  “Still nothing?”  He sags in disappointment.  “Damn.”  

Ja’far is standing and tensed on his bed, knife still in the air.  This strange… person?  Is sitting on his floor, apparently content to just mope there quietly.  When nothing changes after about a minute, Ja’far breaks the silence.

“Forget who,  _ what _ the hell are you?”  

Shaggy bangs jerk as the boy starts.  “Ah!  Sorry, I don’t know how many centuries it’s been since I had a proper conversation.  I used to be quite good with people, actually.  But things have changed so much.”  He waves his hands in the air.  “One time I fell asleep and when I woke up all the carriages had been replaced with cars!”  

Ja’far stares blankly.  

“Ugh, rambling.  I’ve just been alone for so long.”  He straightens.  “Sinbad.  My name is Sinbad.”  

He looks quite proud of himself.  Ja’far does not think he has any reason to be proud of himself, as his question has still not been answered and the boy is still sitting in his previously established moping position on the floor.  The newly-named Sinbad finally sees the expectant look on his face and stutters for a moment, fumbling for words.  

“I’m a ghost, I suppose.  Though it might be better to describe me as a remnant from the previous world.  I didn’t get done away with, like some truly bad people were, but I also don’t come back like the rest of you.  

“I’ve looked and looked, but I’ve never found you before.  Lots of others, though.  Some of them a couple of times.  Especially Aladdin; he’s always about somewhere.”  A pause.  “But it’s hard, you know?  Seeing all of you just how you once were, and I’m just… stuck like this.  Watching.”  He scratches nervously at the back of his head.  “I think I, uh, messed up a bit.  When I was an actual person, that is.  That’s why I’m like this.  But then I found you!  Even earlier than last time.”  He grins.  “You were such a cute toddler, Ja’far!  Though I’m sorry about... well, most everything in your life, actually.”  He finally trails off, noticing Ja’far’s state of anxiety.

“Oh, sit down, would you?  You were always so edgy, especially as a kid.  This is going to take some explaining and you might as well be comfortable.”  

Ja’far doesn’t move.  

“Really, Ja’far.  I won’t hurt you.  I’ve spent millennia looking for you and the last ten years keeping you alive.  Even if I did attack you, it’s not like you can touch me.”  

Ja’far can’t really process this.  Just when he felt like he might have finally gotten something good in his life, some eccentric...  _ ghost _ comes along to ruin it.  

“I’m hallucinating,” he states.  “No, I’m not going to listen to this.  My foster parents are good people.  They take me to school and feed me regularly and let me keep my knife.  I am  _ not _ going to ruin this by talking to some figment of my imagination.”  

Decision made, Ja’far goes back to his backpack, determined to ignore whatever new problem he has created until it goes away.  He has homework to do and he wants to be finished when his parents get home so that he can help make dinner.  

His hallucination gets up from the floor, circling around him and he pulls papers from his pack and sits down at his desk.  

“Agh, no!  I’m not a hallucination!  I’m right here!  I’ve always been here, since you were a little baby!”  He’s pulling at his hair now, but Ja’far is determined to ignore his distress.  “Please, Ja’far, please.  I’ve been alone for so long….”  

Ja’far just starts working through his math assignment.  He’s always been smart -- at numbers, especially -- so this won’t take him too much time.  

“Sinbad” is peering over his shoulder.  “You were always so good with math.  I’m terrible, you know.  Didn’t even learn to read until I was a teenager, and never took to it as well as you.  Embarrassing, that.  Having to go to a kid for extra help when Rurumu left us to our assignments.”  

Ja’far’s head shoots up at that.  Rurumu is the name of his new foster mother.   _ No, _ he thinks to himself,  _ nothing unusual about that.  He’s _ my  _ hallucination after all, of course he would know her name _ .  

Still, he can’t help but notice golden eyes brighten at Ja’far’s small attention.  “Rurumu and Hinahoho!  They found you again, even all this time later, and without any of my help.  They’ll keep you, you know.  You don’t have to worry about that.  You were Rurumu’s child from the moment she laid eyes on you; always were, always will be.”  He smiles and reaches to ruffle Ja’far’s hair.  Ja’far jerks away from him on instinct, but it doesn’t matter anyway, because the hand just passes through his head.  

Ja’far pinches his face and ignores Sinbad’s grunt of frustration, going determinedly back to his work, gripping his pencil tightly.  

“Ugh, you’d think I’d get used to not being able to do anything after all these years, but one sentence from you and I’m right back where I started.”  He goes to sit on Ja’far’s bed, but actually floats an inch or two above it.  He looks down and snorts.  “I’m used to being bigger.  I’m not sure how I feel about being like this again.  I’ve been just the way I looked when the world ended for all this time.”  He sinks down to rest on the bed, but the covers don’t give under the weight he does not have.  

Ja’far really is starting to worry about the specificity of this hallucination, especially considering he’s always been of sound mind before this, no matter what happened to him.  He’s also annoyed at how much it is distracting him from his work.  

“You look better like this,” Ja’far mutters quietly.  “You looked like fucking Anakin Skywalker before.”  

“Ah, he speaks!”  The excitement in Sinbad’s voice is contagious, and Ja’far fights not to look at him except out of the corner of his eye.  “And you say that like it’s a bad thing; at least I wasn’t wearing all black.  And I was quite fashionable in my time!”  

“It looked ridiculous.”  

“You had a lot of different things to say about my outfit before.”  He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, and then pulls a disgusted face.  “God, I’m gross.  You’re a kid now.  Or again, I guess.  Ugh, this is strange.”  

Ja’far frowns at his desk and goes back to his assignment.  It takes a bit of work, but eventually he manages to ignore the presence on his bed and work through the problems.  He is on the last one when Sinbad decides to speak up again.  

“You really don’t think I’m real?  Maybe even just a little?”  

Ja’far finishes his last problem and decides to answer.  No one is home to hear him talk to himself, anyway; maybe he can sort this out before it becomes a permanent issue.  

“If you were real, you’d bleed when I stabbed you.”  

Sinbad winces and holds a hand to his side in remembrance of some phantom pain.  “You were -- and remain -- a very… stabby… child.  No doubt you’ll be a stabby adult, as well, if patterns hold.  No wires this time, though; which is probably a good thing, for the general public.”  

“What wires are you talking about?”  Ja’far has never used wires for much of anything, aside from perhaps the odd craft project forced upon him by caretakers.  

“Bararak Sei!”  Sinbad bounces in excitement.  “Do you remember it?  Big, magicky, red, zappy wires?”  

“Those aren’t even words.  And ‘magic’ isn’t real.”  

“Well, not any _ more _ , it isn’t.  That’s what they did, you know, when they restarted the world.  Supposedly, if everyone was cut off from the rukh, it would make everything more free and fair.”  Sinbad crosses his arms and huffs in annoyance.  “Fat lot of good that did us!  Everyone killed and enslaved each other just like before!  There are still millions of kids like you living in the streets, even in the best nations.

“And even I in my prime couldn’t lay waste like a nuclear bomb!  Judar and Aladdin together might have struggled to do that, for heaven’s sake.  Another thing!  Alibaba was always going on about how governing through the market wasn’t fair, and maybe it wasn’t, but now look what’s happened.  It’s just the same as before, too, only it took longer and killed more!”  

Ja’far stares at the child ranting and raving in front of him.  Somehow, he is dodging from childcare to nuclear warfare and throwing magic in between.  He holds up a hand to stop Sinbad from going on.  

“I’m even crazier than I thought.”  

“Noooo, Ja’far,” Sinbad complains.  “This really happened!  I know you; you’re never going to believe me unless I can give you facts.  But I don’t have any, other than perhaps some contradictory information to history textbooks.”  He’s pacing the small bedroom now, talking more to himself than to Ja’far.  

“Oh, I know!  Things that no one else could know!

“You always pick the tomatoes off of your sandwiches.  You hate it when Rurumu puts honey in the tea, but don’t tell her.  I haven’t seen you drink coffee yet, but I bet you will only want it noxious and black.”  Sinbad makes a face.  “When you were six, a man on the subway kicked you and you pickpocketed him in revenge, and he had over seven hundred dollars in cash.  Uh, do you still like to cook?  I suppose you haven’t had much time to try yet….” 

If anything is leading Ja’far to believe that Sinbad may not be a simple hallucination, it’s that nothing that came out of his head should be that dumb.  “If you’re trying to convince me you’re not an imaginary friend that  _ I made up _ , maybe try for something that I wouldn’t be able to recall myself.”  

“Oh.  Oops.”  He grins sheepishly.  Sinbad puts a hand to his chin and appears to think seriously for a moment.  “Aha!  Well, you may not want to know, anyway, but I can tell you the names of your parents.”  

Ja’far is inexplicably angry.  “No, you can’t; no one can.  They were found dead and burned beyond recognition when I was a baby.  Their identities were false.  I’ve already been told this.”  

“I can too!  Denis and Sofya Amelin.  They were Ukrainian, actually.  Came here about two years before you were born, running from something I never found the identity of.  There is only so much you can do when you can’t physically dig through files.  Whatever it was, it caught up to them in the end, obviously.  I could point you in the direction of the mercenary organization hired to kill them, but I’d rather not, seeing as you’re ten.”  

Ja’far is a bit dazed by this information, but life has taught him to trust nothing and no one.  

“You could have just made those names up, for all I know.”  

Sinbad flops back against the wall, sinks into it an inch, and throws his hands up in the air.  “Oh, come on!  I was there, Ja’far!  I could pick the man they bought false identities from out of a lineup!  When you’re old enough to start poking around, I’ll find you their damn grocery receipts in Ukraine.  Just trust me a little.”  He pauses briefly and considers his own words.  “You trusted me once, and far more than you should have; just give me a chance.”  

He thinks for a moment and finds a glaring hole.  “How did you find my ‘parents’ before I was even born?  Did you know them in your ‘other world’ too?”  Ja’far questions with obvious sarcasm.  

“No, I didn’t.  You, uh… well, they died when you were young that time too.  And to answer your questions, Aladdin died again a couple of years before you were born, this time.  He pointed me in their direction as he… passed through, I suppose.  I think the kid felt a bit sorry for me.”  He smiles in self-deprecation.  “You look just like your mother, Ja’far.  The passport photo of her that they gave you was very bad.  Don’t look much like your father, but he was just as smart as you ever were.  They loved you very much.”  

Ja’far mulls this over for a moment.  “So, in the end, your explanation is more ghosts and magic,” he eventually mutters.    

Sinbad slumps down against the floor, and Ja’far can’t tell if his watery eyes are for show or not.  “Gah!  I give up.  I know everything will be different from before, but I don’t really want much from you; just want someone to talk to occasionally.”

“And I just want to stay in this home for more than a few months.  That doesn’t happen when you walk around talking to yourself.”  Ja’far tries not to crack in his resolve to rid himself of Sinbad.

“Well, only talk to me when you’re alone, then.”

“I really just want to live a normal life.  Which doesn’t involve ghosts with stupid purple ponytails.”

“What’s wrong with the ponytail?  You used to like it!”  Sinbad pets his hair self-consciously.

Ja’far snorts.  “Probably just because I liked to see you trip over it.”  

“I save your life several times -- over two different lifetimes, mind you! -- and this is the thanks I get?”  Sinbad starts crying what Ja’far rather hopes are crocodile tears.  

“I don’t recall any buffoon like you saving my life,” Ja’far protests.  “You can’t even touch anything, and I’d definitely remember if I saw  _ you  _ before.”  

“I can’t touch anything  _ now _ , but when it reallys matters I can, sometimes; mostly just you, actually.  

“Like two weeks ago!  You tripped on the crosswalk and only barely avoided that van running the red light.  I tripped you, you know; I’d apologize if it hadn’t saved your life.”  A bit of interest flares in Ja’far at this, and Sinbad perks up in return, tears forgotten.

“Or when you were seven and that dealer went for your throat with a knife.  But your knee buckled and he only hit your collarbone, and you got away.

“Lots of times when you were little, I helped.  One time you actually fell off of a balcony and I grabbed your ankle.  It was the longest time I’ve ever been able to touch you, though I doubt you’d remember it.  I think the closer you are to death, the more I can interact with you, or something,” Sinbad shrugs.  “I only wish I could have done more.”  

Ja’far frowns down at the ground.  He  _ has _ had a lot of bizarre near-misses, now that he thinks about it.  “That… that time when I was four.  With the boiling water.  Was that you too?”  

Sinbad makes a distressed face, reaches toward Ja’far, and then stops when he realizes it doesn’t matter because he can’t touch him, anyway.  “I’d hoped you didn’t remember too many details of that.”

“Of course I remember it.  I still talk to Vittel and Mahad, you know.  The kids who found me after I ran, and then brought me to the hospital?”  

Sinbad smiles a bit sadly.  “I do know.  And it’s funny; as soon as I find you, everyone else also starts finding each other again.”  Ja’far can’t make sense of that statement, but chooses to let Sinbad continue.

“And yes, that was me.  I wasn’t fast enough, though.  You were small and hungry, always crying….  I don’t know why that motherfu-- uh, I mean scumbag -- thought dunking you in boiling water would make that go away.  I was trying to figure out how to get the social workers to come get you back, and I was distracted.  I’m sorry.”  A phantom hand brushes over blotchy scars on Ja’far’s arms.  “You’ve always had scars on your arms and legs; they’re just a bit more my fault, this time around.”  

Ja’far scrunches his body up on his bed, where he is now sitting, trying to make himself smaller.  “Not your fault.  I would have died, if you hadn’t intervened.  I can deal with a few scars.”  

Sinbad crawls up on the bed next to him.  Ja’far feels a bit nervous, but like he had already said, it’s not as if Sinbad can do anything.  He lets Sinbad scoot over until they’re almost shoulder to shoulder.  

“You’ve always been much stronger than me, Ja’far.”  

“Not strong, I think, just desperate.” 

“And certainly more humble than me.  You only think that way because you haven’t had me around to tell you otherwise.”  

Ja’far unfolds slightly, letting himself relax just a bit.  Maybe, just maybe, he can suspend his disbelief and give this a try.  

“You can… talk to me sometimes,” Ja’far says quietly.  “Only when I’m alone, though!”  Sinbad’s face splits in a grin and he opens his mouth to reply, but Ja’far interrupts quickly.  “And if I don’t like it, I can take that back!  Consider it a trial period.”

Sinbad just keeps grinning.  “Even then, I suppose I could always just pester you for eternity.  I’m quite good at it, I’ve been told.”  

Ja’far suspects he fails to keep the horror from his face.  “Why do I think you’d do that, anyway, whether I allowed it or not?”  

Sinbad just laughs and sinks through the floor.  “Go help your parents make dinner.  I’ll see you later.”  


	2. Two

Ja’far barely manages to make it out of the house on time.  His parents have a baby now, and it always manages to make the mornings hectic; though Ja’far is quite fond of the thing, if he’s honest.  Now that Kikiriku is starting to walk, he needs all the supervision he can get, and Ja’far often finds himself lending a hand.  

He’s in middle school, nearly thirteen.  Not that anyone can tell, much to his chagrin.  He is still tiny, but Sinbad assures him he will grow later.  

Sinbad… is admittedly his closest friend, despite being both a ghost and a nuisance.  

Ja’far has a few other friends, casual ones he thinks he will probably not keep unless they follow him to high school, but none that know him like Sinbad, who often seems to know him better than he knows himself.  It’s also nice, to not have to explain his life to someone, to have them just  _ know _ .  

Not that he hadn’t been creeped out, the first time he realized Sinbad had been watching his every move for most of his life, because he certainly had.  He’d yelled about it quite a bit as well, fortunately when no one was home.  Sinbad had tried to make it up to him, finally giving him an hours-long outline of his own previous life.  

And while Ja’far often questioned his intelligence, Sinbad was quite the storyteller.  Ja’far would have suspected more than a bit of exaggeration, and he _ did _ suspect some areas being edited out as Sinbad tried to save him from some of his more painful memories, except that so many stories ended in Sinbad naked and/or otherwise embarrassed.  Besides, no one could recall anything but the truth in that much detail.  

The anecdotes have kept coming ever since, whenever Sinbad remembers them, along with occasional history lessons that Ja’far keeps mixing up with what he’s actually being taught at school.  Sinbad is rambling on about something now, but it sounds only like inconsequential school gossip.  (How a man as old and historied as he can still be fascinated by gossip, Ja’far doesn’t want to contemplate)

“Sin, why is your hair like that?” Ja’far questions as he walks the empty dirt path he usually takes to school.  Sinbad had apparently realized he was nearly the same age as Ja’far and his peers yesterday, and underwent a sudden wardrobe change, along with giving himself a few extra years.  (Ja’far would also question the bizarre jacket, the waistcoat, the knee-high boots… but Sinbad is surprisingly touchy about his fashion sense, and Ja’far is not in the mood to deal with him sulking).  

Sinbad just laughs nervously.  “I was never very talented at shaving, but especially when I was young.  I, uh, missed one day, and cut off some of my eyebrow and hair.  So I braided it like this to hide it, but then I kind of liked it, so I kept it for a while.”  

Ja’far frowns as he tries to imagine missing so badly that it cost hair and an  _ eyebrow _ .  “Were you drunk?”  

“No!”  Sinbad protests.  “I just hadn’t had much practice.  And then I never got much better at it because you always insisted on doing it for me.”  

Ja’far contemplates any supposed version of himself with a razor next to someone’s throat.  “Have you ever considered that you trust children with weapons far too much, and far too close to your vital organs?”  

Sinbad just grins and floats on his back next to him. “And yet none of them ever killed me.” 

“Famous last words,” Ja’far mutters.  

“Are you plotting my murder, Ja’far?”  Sinbad twirls around in the air.  “I’d love to hear about your plans.” 

“I would if I could.”  Ja’far swipes his hand ineffectively through Sinbad’s neck.  

Sinbad just laughs and they plod along for a while in silence.  This is unusual, and Ja’far knows Sinbad is thinking about something.  He waits for him to finish because rarely does he have such a serious expression on his face and then not confer about it with Ja’far.  

Eventually, this prediction comes true. 

“Does it ever bother you, that I’m like this?”  Sinbad asks, as he sticks his hand through Ja’far’s chest and wiggles his fingers to demonstrate.  There is a strange lilt to his voice, as if he is expecting something, but trying to hide it.  

Ja’far sticks his hands deep in his pockets and thinks about how to answer for a few moments.  

“I do wish you were a physical person,” Ja’far starts.  “But at the same time, I’ve never had a friend for this long, and I’m far from one to be ungrateful for what I have.”  He hesitates for a bit, and Sinbad waits for him to speak.  “I’ll take what I can get,” Ja’far states emphatically.  “And I’m in no way ashamed or bothered by that.”  

Sinbad smiles brightly in response, but his eyes are closed and it looks a bit fake.  “I’ll take what I can get too,” he says and drops down to walk beside Ja’far, leaving no footprints beside the small ones left in the dirt.  “I just wish….”  Sinbad frowns for a moment.  “I was always a very physical person.  I don’t like not being able to touch people.  Or eat.  Or  _ drink _ .”  

“You’re annoying enough sober, I hate to think what you’d be like drunk.”  

“Ja’far,” Sinbad says seriously, “there is nothing wrong with having fun.”  

Ja’far snorts at the concentrated expression on Sinbad’s face.  “Not everyone’s definition of fun is girls and alcohol, Sin.”  

“You say that now, but just you wait until your hormones kick in.  I’ll get you to party properly this time if it kills me.”  

Ja’far considers commenting on the irony of that statement, but decides to let it go.  “I thought most people got that out of their systems in their twenties.  Were you that creepy old man at college parties?”  

Sinbad splutters.  “I’m not old or creepy!”  He looks down at himself.  “I can’t be more than sixteen right now!”  

“Thirty-five years alive, thousands more as some sort of ghost, stalked me for a decade, far too many stories about drunken nakedness than anyone should have.”  Ja’far holds up his fingers and ticks them off.  “Old and creepy.” 

“Don’t say it like that!  I haven’t actually  _ aged _ , you know.  I don’t think.  And I was just looking out for you!”  

_ And nothing about the drunken nudity _ .  Ja’far just rolls his eyes as he rounds the corner and steps into the road leading up to his school.  Sinbad might pout a bit, but he won’t be too offended at Ja’far’s silence; he knows they can’t exactly talk in public spaces.  He does wonder, occasionally, at how a being as old as Sinbad can be naturally childish, but Ja’far supposes that a long time in total isolation would do funny things to anyone’s head.  

Sinbad continues whining quietly about children always disrespecting their elders, but Ja’far has grown skilled at tuning him out.  He walks up the stairs and into the main school building, navigating hallways to his locker, where he does his customary exchange of books and coat from backpack to locker.  Sinbad used to think it was funny, in the early days, to hide in his locker, leaving only his head in view, and wait for Ja’far to inevitably find him and nearly jump out of his own skin.  That finally stopped when Ja’far stopped reacting.

He’s drifted off somewhere else for now, though Ja’far knows he is close.  Sinbad does occasionally go poke around elsewhere, but he’s never far.  He’s terribly protective of Ja’far, something Ja’far doesn’t resent, as he knows Sinbad cares about him (and quite a lot, if the look on his face when he tells stories of their past life is anything to go by), but it does confuse him a bit.  Surely, he must get bored of watching middle school life.  Ja’far himself is bored by it.  

He becomes distracted from his thoughts while walking down the hall towards his first class.  He’s learned to be at least civil under Rurumu’s careful tutelage, and so a few acquaintances greet him as he goes.  No one here knows much of his past, and Ja’far would rather keep it that way; it means they all treat him like just another kid.  His parents worry, sometimes, that Ja’far doesn’t have a whole gaggle of friends, but it doesn’t concern him.  He is close with his family, close with Pipirika (technically his aunt, though only a bit older than him), and of course, he has Sinbad.  

And sure enough, by the time he settles himself into his desk in his math class, Sinbad is perched on the window sill.  

“I can’t believe they teach you guys this stuff so young,” he mutters, squinting at the board.  “This was only used by scholars, back in my time.”  

Sinbad, Ja’far has learned, is spectacularly bad at math.  He knows eighteen modern languages, nearly a dozen dead ones, and can get by in another ten, scattered throughout time, but god forbid anyone put more than one non-numerical entity in an equation.  

Ja’far, on the other hand, is very  _ good _ at math.  He hadn’t been a week into seventh grade before he was bumped up into eighth grade algebra, and even then he has an easy time of it.  The problem-solving, puzzles, and neat rules and processes delight him and he absorbs it eagerly.  Writing does not come so naturally to him, but he is quick-witted and studious, so that doesn’t present much of a problem either, especially considering how much he enjoys reading.  Sinbad always appears a bit put out that Ja’far is so proficient at school, and so Ja’far makes sure to ask him for help on his Spanish homework, even when he doesn’t need it.  

Sinbad also tries to teach him Latin on a regular basis.  Ja’far resisted at first -- it was a dead language, after all -- but it was far from dead to Sinbad, who’d lived in a world dominated by it for centuries.  Plus, as he’d been lectured about many times, it was a useful base for several other languages, and would make the whole process of becoming multi-lingual easier.  

Ja’far doesn’t understand why Sinbad seems so set on teaching him half a dozen languages when he’ll never need them, but doesn’t mind too much, when he has the spare time.  He finds it comes much faster having someone to speak them with, rather than just going to class and reciting.  

He tunes back in to his teacher lecturing, realizes he already understands what she is explaining, and tunes back out. 

Sinbad is wandering around the classroom, peering over students’ shoulders and listening in on whispered conversations.  When he meanders back to Ja’far, there is a note waiting for him on the desk.  

_ Stop staring at middle-schoolers, you creep. _

Sinbad puts on his best offended face.  “I’m not ‘staring,’ I just like to observe.  You guys are funny, sometimes.”  

_ A grown man fascinated by children is still pretty creepy, _ Ja’far scribbles.  

Sinbad frowns at him.  “I  _ like  _ that you guys are still children,” he says, and then backpedals at Ja'far's critical look  “Not like that!”  he exclaims.  “It’s just... in the world I grew up in, most people didn’t get to _ be _ children at your age, even if we clearly still were.  I know you get mad about the education system, but you have to understand how far everyone has come, that even people like you still get to be treated like a child at school.”  

Ja’far frowns in contemplation, then draws a smiley face upon his paper to to indicate his understanding of the sentiment.  

The teacher seems to sense he isn’t paying attention, and calls on Ja’far to solve a problem.  He goes to the board and does so flawlessly, much to her irritation, then returns to his desk and spacing out.  

“Everyone is mad at you, for being able to do that so easily,” Sinbad notes.  

_ That’s their problem, not mine. _

“Ja’far, you should really try and make more close friends.”  

_ Why would I want friends I have to pretend to be stupid for? _

Sinbad appears stumped at this, and doesn’t reply, just frowning into space.  

Finally, the teacher stops reviewing and actually begins to cover new material, and Ja’far pays attention.  Sinbad, too, focuses on the board.  Though Ja’far teases him, he does understand at least basic algebra, and it isn’t too hard to follow.  It’s when the shapes and curves start getting involved a couple years down the line that he always gives up on figuring it out entirely.  

Eventually, the lesson progresses into a simple series of example problems, and Ja’far quickly stops paying attention again.  He understood it the first time, and repetition won’t help him any.  

_ Why didn’t you ever become good at math? _ _ You had the time.   _ He draws Sinbad’s attention and writes.  

Sinbad shrugs.  “A lot of it wasn’t developed until fairly recently, beyond basic geometry.  And I’ve never been good at math.  Why bother working terribly hard to become mediocre at something when I could work really hard to become the best at what I am good at?”  

Ja’far thinks for a moment.   _ I guess that sort of makes sense. _

“Of course it does!”  Sinbad declares.  “You don’t build a kingdom by being good at everything all on your own, because then you’ll just be a mediocre tyrant.  You do it by collecting a lot of people who are the best at only one thing, and then working together.”  

_ Specialization of labor. _

“Sure, if you want to quote your shitty history textbooks.”  Sinbad’s eyebrows draw together.  “I have a thing or two to say to those editors, about what they’re teaching you guys.  Or more what they’re  _ not  _ teaching you, I suppose.”  

Ja’far snorts.   _ So you’ve made very clear _ .

“At least I’ve taught you better,” Sinbad says with satisfaction.

_ Keeps messing me up on exams, though _ .  

“A small price to pay for proper education.  If I hear one more story about helpful ‘Indians,’ I’m going to spit.”  

He’s right, and Ja’far does appreciate it, if not the fact discrepancies it causes in his memory.  The bell rings, and all the kids pack up their belongings in a hurry, shoving papers into backpacks already full of crumpled papers, and darting out the door.  Ja’far closes his notebook, stacks papers neatly into a binder, makes sure his backpack is zipped all the way, and walks quietly out after them.  

He actually has history next, which Sinbad boycotts on principle, though Ja’far teases him about it, since it’s not like anyone can see his absence.  It’s also a bit of jealousy, as Ja’far wishes he could do the same.  The class is terribly boring, and even without Sinbad’s guidance, he has a feeling he would have noticed the bias in teaching anyway, and it irritates him.  Ja’far finishes his homework for that class before the bell even rings, and before most students realize they have homework at all.  

Finally, the torture ends, and Ja’far finds a quiet corner to eat his snack before his third class.  

“You’re eating alone again,” Sinbad scolds as he melds out of the wall.  

Ja’far glances around to make sure he picked his corner well before replying.  “It’s a seven minute break to shove an apple in your face, I don’t need to have a meaningful social interaction.”  

Sinbad looks pained.  “You always preferred work to going out, but I never had to deal with this side of you, since we sort of had a ready-made group of friends.”  

“I’m fine by myself.  It truly doesn’t bother me.  Besides, I’m rarely alone anymore, you’re always here.”  

“I’m not  _ real _ , Ja’far.”  

“You’re more real than any other friends I have,” Ja’far retorts.  “They think I’m just a nice, studious kid; they don’t know where I’ve come from.”

“You could always try, I don’t know, actually  _ telling them  _ something about yourself,” Sinbad sighs in exasperation.  

Ja’far rolls his eyes.  “You’re too old to understand middle schoolers.”  Ja’far continues over Sinbad’s protests.  “This is a nice, middle class neighborhood.  Telling them things about myself would just confuse them, and confusion makes them scared, and then they’d either avoid me entirely or start bullying me.”  

“You can’t know that without trying!”

“I can’t be certain, but I’ve seen it happen enough over the last few months to know it’s probable,” Ja’far insists.  “You’ve seen who gets picked on and who doesn’t.  I’m already lucky I get away with being so small and freckly.”  

Sinbad looks annoyed, but ultimately gives in with a mutter of “children can be so cruel.”  

Ja’far just shrugs and flips open his phone to check the time.  It’s a fairly new possession, but Ja’far doesn’t use it much except to communicate with his family for scheduling, and as a potential excuse if anyone ever catches him talking to thin air.  In that respect, it is a great security blanket.  He sees he only has a few minutes left to get to his next classroom, so he gets up from his corner and starts meandering towards it.  

Ja’far thinks earth science  _ could _ be interesting, but his teacher certainly isn’t.  Even reading the textbook is more entertaining than listening to him drone on, and at this point science is more memorization than actual thinking or problem-solving.  Which, seeing as Ja’far has a memory like a steel trap, means the class presents no problem.  He spends the time mashing a scrap of tin foil into a perfectly smooth, hard ball against his desk.  

Three minutes before class ends, Sinbad eyes the finished product.  “I can’t deny the aesthetic appeal, but that wasn’t terribly productive,” he notes.  

_ Already did the reading for this lecture _ , Ja’far scribbles.   _ Nothing new to learn from this guy. _

“He is rather boring,” Sinbad agrees.  “His voice makes everyone want to sleep.”  

Ja’far waits until the teacher’s back is turned, and then artfully flicks his ball into the man’s empty coffee mug.  A minute later the bell rings, and he leaves.  

Sinbad promptly disappears, and Ja’far sighs in resignation.  It’s lunch break, and Sinbad always staunchly refuses to associate with him, hoping Ja’far will instead go find others to talk to.  He does, sometimes, because he knows he should.  But it always takes so much energy out of him, and Ja’far doesn’t have the energy to spare on this particular Friday.  Instead he slinks off behind the building, knowing there are nice trees to sit under up against the fence.  

It isn’t five minutes since Ja’far sat down in prickly grass to eat that he feels eyes upon him, and turns abruptly to catch the perpetrator in the act.  

His speed is unnecessary, however, because the person staring at him doesn’t seem in the least perturbed at getting caught.  In fact, he’s still staring.  

“Uh, hello?”  Ja’far asks more than says.  Normally someone staring would warrant more alarm, but this particular voyeur is only a small child.  Upon getting no response, Ja’far asks “Are you lost?”  

A deadpan stare is all that meets him, the child standing motionless a few yards away on the other side of the chain link fence.  

“Um, maybe I should get an adult,” Ja’far mumbles to himself.  

A snort startles Ja’far out of his concern, and he rapidly whips his head around, only to relax again once he finds Sinbad.  

“Don’t worry, Ja’far.  That’s just how he is.”  

“I don’t know,” Ja’far mutters, before turning his attention back to the kid.  “Are you alright?”  

The child continues to stare and Ja’far sighs.  Just as he’s about to get up and do something, there’s a shout in the distance and the kid’s head turns.  He looks one last time at Ja’far, waves slightly, and then goes scampering off.  

“...well that was weird,” Ja’far summarizes once he’s disappeared back behind some bushes.  

“Masrur is always like that,” Sinbad dismisses.

“Who?”

“Uh, oops.”  Sinbad bites his lip guiltily.  

“That’s...Masrur?”

Sinbad nods.

“He’s so little.”  

“No littler than the last time you met him.  He grows fast.”  

Ja’far pinches his face.  “Cradle robber.”  

“I’m no such thing!  He didn’t have anywhere else to go!”  

“Does he, this time?”  

Sinbad nods.  “Extended family.  He’s fine; there’s a playground behind the bushes, and Masrur has always had a penchant for wandering off.”  

“...if you say so.”  Ja’far starts packing up his lunch, gathering his trash into a ball.  “Should I like...try to go see him, or something?”

“Nah, that might be a bit hard to explain,” Sinbad dismisses.  “I’m sure you’ll run into each other again, it seems to be the way things are going.”  

“Any other friends from my past life wandering around that I should know about?”  

“I’ll let you know if I think so.  Don’t worry about it.”  

“It’s a bit hard not to, considering a lot of them could be orphaned like I was,” Ja’far disagrees, finishing packing his lunch back up.

“I’ll be sure to let you know if I think there’s anything you can do, how about that?”  Sinbad compromises.  

“Fine.  You know eventually you’re going to have to stop being so overprotective.”  

“Talk to me when you’re old enough to drink and we’ll see.”  

Ja’far rolls his eyes and starts his trek back inside.  If there is one thing about Sinbad that perpetually peeves him beyond all else, it’s his protective streak; like he isn’t more aware than most that Ja’far has already seen too much to be sheltered.  Ja’far trails back into the school building amidst the crowd of other students and resigns himself to a boring afternoon of dated literature and misinformed health education before he is allowed to troop home once more, no doubt accompanied by Sinbad’s ceaseless chatter.  

 

* * *

 

As soon as Ja’far walks in the door to his house, there is a squeal and a tiny body clamped around his leg.  Ja’far smiles in spite of himself, and bends down to hoist Kikiriku up onto his hip.

“At least you can pick him up this time,” Sinbad observes, “last time he was bigger than you before he was a year old.”  

Ja’far frankly still has a hard time conceiving of his fairly normal-sized adoptive family as a race of giants, but just gives Kikiriku a kiss on the forehead and then blows a raspberry at him when he giggles.  

“You should have kids, this time,” Sinbad says.  “You’ve always liked them.”  

Ja’far chokes, and looks at Sinbad in shock.  He looks around, notices Rurumu is still in the kitchen, and the baby certainly won’t notice, so whispers, “I’m  _ twelve _ , Sin.”  

“I don’t mean  _ now _ !”  Sinbad exclaims.  “Just, one day.  When you find someone you want to settle down with.  You were too busy before, with the way I monopolized all of your time, so you never got the chance to have a family, even though you would have been good at it.”  For some reason, Sinbad’s face looks a little pained at this statement.  

Ja’far blows his bangs out of his face with a huff and rolls his eyes.  “Bring it up again in fifteen years and we’ll see.”  

“Twenty seven is kind of old to barely start considering that, don’t you think?”  Sinbad asks.  

“No,” Ja’far states certainly.  “In fact, if I want to get married before twenty-six, yell at me.”   

Any reply Sinbad might have made is cut off by Rurumu calling Ja’far’s name.  

“Go bother someone else, I’ve got things to do.”  Ja’far disappears around the corner, baby chirping as he bounces it.

“So mean,” Sinbad whines before relenting to the request and disappearing.  

 

In this fashion, Ja’far floats through his first year of middle school with no particular problems.  He’s polite and liked well enough, but truly close with no one at all.  He attends martial arts classes, but otherwise is content to stay at home, read, study, and talk to his family.  He likes peanut butter and potato chips, and googles porn for the first time.  It disturbs him more than it arouses, and he closes out of it very quickly. (Sinbad examines it with a concerned expression and assures him sex is nothing like that.)  Aside from Ja’far’s advanced reading content, it is all incredibly ordinary, and that fact makes Sinbad inexplicably happy.  

On a particularly humid morning towards the end of the school year, Ja’far rolls over in his bed and immediately starts; because Sinbad is standing over him, and he is very, very naked.  “Sin?” he squeaks out, trying not to look and failing miserably.  “What are you doing?”  

Sinbad’s only reply is his usual teasing grin before he yanks Ja’far’s blankets off and crawls on top of him.  

Ja’far gulps and tries to retain his composure despite Sinbad’s face looming over his own.  “Seriously, what are you doing?”  

“What, you don’t like it?” Sinbad asks, voice benign but eyes sparking.  He leans closer, and only then does Ja’far realize that he can feel his breath against his face, that the hands on either side of his head have enough weight to depress the mattress.  

“No, that’s not--” Ja’far reaches out to grab his arm.  “Sin, you’re real.  What happened?  What’s--”

Ja’far doesn’t get an answer, because his questions are cut off by lips on his, hot and feverish and setting his body ablaze.  A spark of energy travels down his spine to rest low in his belly, and Ja’far knows he must be making some sort of pathetic sound at how helpless he suddenly feels.  Just as he’s about to completely give in, suddenly Sinbad is gone.  When Ja’far opens his eyes, he can see him back above.  All Ja’far can do is stare at where his collar bones meet the hollow of his throat, down to a perfectly formed chest, developed abdominals, down lower still--

“Like what you see?”  

Startled out of his examination, Ja’far feels his face flush bright red even as the hot, urgent feeling in his belly increases tenfold.  

“That’s besides the point, Sin!  What happened that--”  

He’s cut off again as Sinbad sits down hard on his hips, bringing their lips back together.  Ja’far has no idea what a kiss is supposed to feel like, but if it’s always this overwhelming, he’s not sure how people manage it in public.  He can feel Sinbad’s weight against him, only making him burn hotter with the way his thighs are clamped around Ja’far’s narrow hips.  Ja’far feels like he’s running short on air, though he can’t tell if it’s from their locked lips or the way he aches and feels like his heart is beating out of his chest.  He pushes at Sinbad and he finally moves, leaving Ja’far to gasp for air even as his whole body twitches and shivers.  

“Don’t question a good thing, Ja’far.”  

Ja’far doesn’t reply, completely transfixed as Sinbad bends to bite at his neck, hands trailing down his sides before he lifts his weight off of Ja’far, wriggling down his body until his hands are on Ja’far’s hip bones and his tongue trailing below his belly button.  

“Sin--” Ja’far eeks out again, though it’s a half-hearted protest at best, when Ja’far has finally taken notice of his own state, erection stiff, flushed, and feeling like it is pulsing with every beat of his heart.  

Sinbad grins one last time, bites his lip, and Ja’far barely holds back a shriek as he is enveloped in unfamiliar warmth.  He can’t bear to look down, eyes squeezed shut and head thrown back, but he instinctively buries his hands in Sinbad’s hair, unsure whether it is to pull him off or push him down.  

Ja’far can’t even process what’s currently happening.  His legs are quivering out of his control, breaths coming in desperate gasps, everything focused on the gentle pressure of Sinbad’s lips around him, warm and soft, accompanied by affectionate strokes of his hands on Ja’far’s skinny hips and thighs.  

He finally gains his bearings enough to look down and meets Sinbad’s eyes, swallowing audibly.  Sinbad makes a small, pleased noise, and Ja’far feels like he’s going to break.  He can’t tell if he needs to vomit, sneeze, or scream, but something is dreadfully wrong.  

“Sin,” he tries to warn, “stop.  Something’s--just stop, please,” he begs.  

Sinbad doesn’t stop, and Ja’far feels tears building at the corner of his eyes, fingers clawing into Sinbad’s hair.  As frightening as the sensation is, Ja’far finds his body wants it, and it’s beyond his control to stop himself any longer.  He hears a high whine that must be his own before tugging Sinbad down, vision whiting out as he momentarily loses control of all his limbs as desperate and delirious spasms take over his movements..  

Ja’far wakes up panting and sweating lightly, legs shaking and warmth between soaking between them.  His entire body is tingling, nerves singing even as they twitch and twang out of tune, and underneath his alarm Ja’far can feel a warmth and contentment spreading outwards from his abdomen.  When he has finally collected enough of his wits and dares to open his eyes, Ja’far sees Sinbad leaning over his bed once more, and barely cuts off a scream.  

“Nightmare?” he asks, thick brows furrowed in concern.

Ja’far swallows, looks down, and finds Sinbad fully dressed, just as he always is.  He sticks a hand out experimentally, and it passes through harmlessly.  “You could say that,” he mutters, finally conscious enough to realize what has happened.  

“You want to talk about it?”

“No!” Ja’far protests, a bit too vehemently.  “No, no.  It’s fine.  I barely remember it at this point.”

“...alright,” Sinbad agrees, clearly a bit hesitant.  “I mean it’s almost time for you to get up, anyway.”  

Ja’far rolls onto his side, using the movement to surreptitiously slide a hand down and make sure the wetness he feels in his underwear has not soaked through his sweatpants.  It hasn’t, and he barely restrains a sigh of relief.  He yawns instead, shuffling out of his blankets and stumbling to his feet.  

“‘M gonna go take a shower,” he mumbles, darting as quickly for the bathroom as he can without making it conspicuous.  He clicks the bathroom door closed and locks it, and is just about to pull off his shirt when Sinbad’s head pops through, startling Ja’far enough that he lets out a small yelp.  

“Uh, sorry,” Sinbad smiles sheepishly.  “You forgot to bring your change of clothes.”  

“It’s alright, I’ll change in my room.”  Ja’far puts on his best irritated face, despite feeling more distressed than annoyed.  “Now  _ privacy _ please, would you?”

Sinbad raises his hands in placation and disappears back through the door.  Ja’far waits a full sixty seconds to make sure he does not intend to reappear, and then slumps over with a beleaguered exhale.  He’d known it would have to happen sometime, based upon the development of his peers, but Ja’far really wished he could have waited longer to start experiencing this.  

He knows there’s nothing  _ wrong  _ with it, per se, even if the realization that he was attracted to men was highly inconvenient.  It’s more that he sees his classmates driven to the extremes of distraction by their various attractions, and has no desire to look as foolish as they do.  Shaking himself out of anxious and racing thoughts, Ja’far bends to turn on the water before Sinbad comes in asking why it isn’t running yet.  

Ja’far looks around once more before pulling his shirt over his head, then swiftly yanking his pants down and crumpling them into a ball to hide the evidence.  He hops into the shower and yanks the curtain closed hurriedly, one more barrier between him and the subject of his most recent dreams.  Bringing his hands up over his eyes, Ja’far takes a few deep breaths in and out, trying to calm his anxiety as well as his slightly twitchy body that seems determined to go haywire.  He tips his head back against the tiled wall and lets water beat over his face.  

_ Why Sinbad _ ? he thinks.   _ Of all people, why did it have to be  _ Sinbad?  Ja’far can’t help but make a distressed whine, feeling betrayed by his own unconscious brain.  If he was going to have one person he could never look straight in the face again, he’d really rather it have not been his best friend.  What if it happened again?  What if Sinbad noticed, next time?  And most of all, why had he picked the one person in his life that he couldn’t touch?  

Ja’far blinks his eyes open as he realizes his own thoughts, trying to shake them off by reaching for shampoo and scrubbing hard at his hair.  It’s to no avail, though.  Ja’far wants to be able to touch Sinbad; not just to play or talk or be able to smack him when he says something stupid, but because he now has memories, albeit false, of how good Sinbad’s body had felt against him.  He had been so warm, so soft, the solid weight and the hands on his skin had felt so nice, not to mention…

Ja’far shakes his head violently as he feels warmth building in his abdomen once more, and dissipates it intentionally, reminding himself that he’ll never get to touch Sinbad.  It’s always been a bit depressing, but now it feels cold and hard in his gut; a deep pain Ja’far doesn’t recognize.  It’s useful, though, in forcing down inconvenient thoughts, so Ja’far tells himself again.   _ You’ll never have Sinbad _ , he repeats.   _ You’ll never have him, you’ll never have him, you’ll never have him _ .  Ja’far doesn’t know how long he’s stood under the water when his eyes start watering, but as soon as he realizes it he stops, reverts to old mechanisms, and shoves all his emotions back down with a shuddering breath.  

He slaps his cheeks slightly, opens his eyes, and determines not to think of the subject again.  It’s short work to finish washing himself, and Ja’far carefully buries his clothes into his laundry hamper so no one will discover anything before he can wash them.  When he steps out into his room, Sinbad is sitting on his bed and staring at him, clearly concerned.  

“You sure you’re alright, Ja’far?”  

Ja’far glances away quickly before he can really make eye contact.  “I’m fine.”  

Sinbad frowns, but doesn’t argue as Ja’far tightens the towel around his waist and rummages for a change of clothes.  “You’re acting weird.”

“I’m acting normal,” Ja’far contests, coming up with a suitable outfit.  “Now could you leave while I change?”  

Sinbad gives him one last, worried look, and sinks through the bed.  

Ja’far meets intent, golden eyes before he disappears, and feels his entire spine tingle with some sort of wordless anxiety that he is now realizing he can only associate with attraction.  

“Fuck,” he breathes, resisting the urge to sob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rip in pieces ja'far, your dignity will be missed


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet you all thought this was going to be left to die, but alas, here I am. Moved back to the city, and also this chapter was rather hard to compile, so forgive the excess of linebreaks. I didn't find middle school terribly entertaining, nor did most others, so I figured it was better to breeze over in snippet-style chunks than make a large and boring affair.
> 
> Also!! Featuring lovely guest writer Verti, aka murphy, who has gifted me with the presence of Ja'far's regrettable emo stage. 
> 
> It's ok Ja'far, it happens to the best of us.

Much to Ja’far’s chagrin, Sinbad does seem to pick up on his new degree of physical maturity, despite never obliquely saying as much.  

“What about her?” Sinbad asks, pointing to a quiet, dark-haired girl near the front of the classroom.  

“Hm?” Ja’far looks up from his book.  “What about her?”  

“She’s cute.  And smart.”

“Ok.”  Ja’far looks back down.  

“Ja’farrrr,” Sinbad whines.  “Don’t you think about these things at all?  You need to have fun in life.”  

“What does that have to do with girls?”  

Sinbad gives a huff of frustration.  “Aren’t kids your age supposed to be interested in things like that?”  Admittedly, it’s been a while since Sinbad was thirteen, but he’s pretty sure he’d been interested in girls much earlier than that.  

Ja’far shrugs.  “I like to keep to myself; you know that.”  

“You’re not going to know unless you try,” Sinbad wheedles.  

Ja’far looks up again, squinting critically about the girl Sinbad had picked.  “Rachel likes to keep to herself, just like I do.  I’m not going to bother her when she doesn’t want to be bothered, especially because I have no desire to bother her”

Sinbad sighs in resignation.  “You’re no fun.”

“Why, was I more fun at this age before?”

Sinbad frowns.  “I guess not.”

“Then why do you think I’ll be interested in different things this time?”

“I don’t know.  Less pressure?”

Ja’far narrows his eyes and tries to put her in the context of his newly discovered dreams and fantasies.  It’s a bit harder, because he doesn’t know his classmate the way he knows Sinbad, but he decides it isn’t unappealing.  “I guess she’s cute; maybe I could like her if I tried, but I don’t even know her.”  

“That’s why you should try and talk to her!”  

Ja’far shakes his head.  “Too much work; I have other things I’d rather spend my time on.”

Sinbad deflates once more.  “Come on, Ja’far.  How are you ever going to manage a relationship if you never practice?”  

“Maybe I don’t want to practice.  Maybe I just want to do a relationship correctly one time and be done with it.”  

“I’m pretty sure it’s not that easy,” Sinbad argues.  

“Rurumu and Hinahoho only ever had each other, and they’re very happily married.”

“Well-” Sinbad fumbles, “-they’re the exception to the rule.”  

“Are you sure it’s not  _ you _ who’s the exception?  I know I certainly don’t see every adult I know sleeping around like you did.”  

“I’ve told you no such thing!”  

Ja’far rolls his eyes.  “You don’t have to  _ tell _ me for me to figure it out.  I’m neither stupid or innocent.”  

“Fine, whatever.  I was an exception on the other end of the spectrum, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.  Most people take a few goes before they get it right.”  

“I’m thirteen; I’m not dumb enough to think anything I started now would be something to last a lifetime.”  

“Exactly!  That’s why it’s a good time to practice; stakes are low.”  

Ja’far drops his chin into his hands, cheeks smushing against his palms.  “I don’t have that much emotional energy.”  

“You’re a kid!  You can’t be tired yet!”  

“And yet I am.”  

“And here I was hoping I could convince you to get a life this time.”  

“All your efforts for naught, I’m afraid.”  That, and Sinbad’s insistence that he have affections for someone else is excruciating when all Ja’far can really focus on is  _ him _ .

“Is it because you’re worried about how you look?  I mean, I think mostly you just forgot about it entirely, but I know it used to bother you sometimes, how little you were.  Little and chubby.  You should go for older girls, they liked that then, they’ll probably like it--”

“Sin, shut up.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll grow out of it.”  

“I’m not chubby,” he mutters resentfully.

“Yeah, you’re skinny.  Just your cheeks are chubby.”  

“You are in no way endearing me to your cause.”  Ja’far pauses to frown.  “And older women, really?  That’s just...creepy.”  

“They knew how to appreciate cuteness better.”

“Ew.  Definitely not.  We have a word for that now and it’s pedophilia.”

“Not  _ that  _ much older!”  

“Just give up, Sin.”  

Sinbad whines.  “Fine, whatever.  Don’t listen to me; live out your life in loneliness and sorrow.”  

Ja’far eyes him sinking slowly through the floor, and snorts out a laugh when he disappears.  “So dramatic.”  

 

It isn’t just Sinbad taking an interest in his non-existent romantic life either.  Rurumu catches Ja’far staring off into space as he mechanically washes the dishes, and gives a knowing smile before touching his shoulder lightly and startling him out of his trance.  

“Thinking about something?”

Ja’far shakes his head.  “Nah, just spacing out.”  

“That was an awfully intense face for spacing out.  Thinking about some _ one _ ?”  The teasing tone lets Ja’far know exactly what she means.

“Not you too,” he grumbles.  

“Nothing wrong with having a crush,” Rurumu says.  “Tell me about her!”

Ja’far sets a mug down with a loud clack.  “I don’t have a  _ crush _ .”

“No cute girls at school?”

Ja’far sighs and resigns himself to the discussion.  “Plenty of cute girls, just no one I want to bother with.”  

“So who were you thinking about?”

“No one.”

Rurumu just looks at him critically.

“Just a friend, ok?”  

“And is your friend cute?”

Ja’far gives an irritated growl.  “That doesn’t matter.”

“Is she?”

Ja’far bites his lip for a moment, then decides that with no particular religious affiliations and the goodness to take him in for no gain, Rurumu probably won’t mind.  He looks around nervously to make sure the subject of his thoughts is not present.  “I guess.  He’s um… I guess cute is a word, though it’s not quite right.”  

She blinks a couple times, but otherwise seems to take it in stride.  “Ah, I see.  Is that what’s so worrying, then?”  

Ja’far barks out a laugh before he can stop himself.  “No, that’s not the reason, though it is a bit inconvenient.”  Though a far cry from…. Literally every other circumstance surrounding Sinbad.

“So what’s the reason for all the moping?”

“I’m not  _ moping _ , I’m just thinking.”  Ja’far scrunches his nose at her still-expectant face.  “A lot of reasons.  It’s just complicated.”  

Rurumu tries to hold back a smile at the response; complicated at thirteen generally has a far different definition that it would as an adult.  “Competition?”

“No, definitely not.”  The understatement of the century; it’s rather hard to have competition when no one else is able to even know Sinbad exists.  

“Then complicated how?”  

“Just...you know, complicated.”  

“Alright, alright,” Rurumu laughs lightly.  “I sense when I’m not wanted.”  

“It’s fine; it’ll pass.”

“It’s alright to have strong feelings, Ja’far.  You’re supposed to, when you’re young.”

“I know.  It’ll pass anyway.”  

“If you say so.  Let me know if you ever want to talk about it.”

“I’m  _ fine _ ,” Ja’far insists.

Rurumu just tries not to make her smile too patronizing.

* * *

In celebration of his twelfth birthday and entering seventh grade, Rurumu and Hinahoho both pitch in to buy Ja’far a set of black headphones with an intricate banner of skulls and bones painted across the headband. In all honesty, he doesn’t think much of it at first; mostly because it’s a few sizes larger in diameter than his head and way too heavy and bulky to carry around. Still, Ja’far can’t bring himself to throw it away -especially after how proud his parents had looked when they had presented it to him- and ends up stashing it in a corner of his room with a mental note to donate it to charity or give it to Kikiriku once he outgrows it.

At least, that’s what he told Sinbad. It’s only a few weeks later when Sinbad walks in on Ja’far studying at his desk, the still-too-large headset balanced carefully atop his white tuft of hair and blasting what can only be described as screaming and cursing and lots of unnecessary drum-banging. 

The music is so loud Sinbad has to yell to get Ja’far to turn it down, only for the other to shift into a more comfortable position in his chair. Sinbad finally resorts to phasing the top part of his head through Ja’far’s desk, glaring at him like some angry bullfrog. He lets out a relieved sigh when Ja’far finally takes the headphones off, now walking out of the desk to peer over Ja’far’s shoulder. “I thought you didn’t want those headphones.”

Ja’far shrugs and turns back to his homework. “I changed my mind. They help me concentrate.”

“By blowing your eardrums out.” Sinbad frowns at the overly complicated math problems and looks back at the headphones, inspecting them. “Seriously, that can’t be good for you. What type of music sounds that angry anyways?”

“I like it. It’s calming, in some way.” Ja’far finishes writing the last geometry proof with a flourish of his pen. He sets it down on the side and reaches for a small black notebook tucked neatly in the small shelf that sits on the table. Ja’far’s hand passes underneath the small desk lamp and Sinbad glimpses the glint of his fingernails in the dim light. 

“Are you wearing nail polish? _Black_ nail polish?”  
“Yeah. So what?”

Sinbad blinks, caught off-guard by Ja’far’s blunt response. He scratches his head, “I, uh, never really took you for the type to paint your nails. Or do anything makeup related in general.” Sinbad frowns at the glossy black nails. “Is this a thing that’s going on right now?” Not that Ja’far would be the one to keep up with trends, but still.

Ja’far ignores him and opens his notebook,  flipping past pages of crudely drawn figures with eyes too big and waists too thin for their heads. He comes to a stop at a blank page. “No. I just like them like this.” He takes his pen in hand again and begins to scribble. “Leave me alone, I’m writing.” 

Sinbad watches Ja’far write something about broken wings and falling into darkness and loving with a dead heart. He continues watching as the other scribble down possible words that could rhyme with "heart" and decides that of all the ridiculous and ludicrous behaviors he’s seen Ja’far take onwhilst sleep-deprived or drunk in his past life, this is not one of them. “What’s up with you?”

“What do you mean?”

Sinbad gestures, “The angry music, the headphones, the black nail polish. I don’t remember you liking any of this, especially since you were always too busy with paperwork and stock reports to write dark and emotional poetry. You weren’t even like this a few months ago.”  He takes another look at the stanzas, “Isn’t it a bit too early to be moping about unrequited love and death?”

Ja’far bristles and looks at him. “Maybe I have some free time now that I’m not helping you run a country. Not to mention ‘angry music’, as you’re calling it, probably wasn’t invented back then.” He huffs and turns back to his notebook, now pulling his black hoodie over his head and disappearing into it. “This helps me relax and I like it.”

“You like writing about broken hearts.”

“ _ You  _ liked writing about your cradle-robbing tendencies.”

Sinbad’s jaw drops and he turns away to sulk. “For the last time, all of you came to me willingly! I’m not a cradle robber and I  _ should  _ know, considering that I came across a few slave traders who fit that description perfectly.”

Ja’far snorts and continues writing, turning a deaf ear to Sinbad’s prattling.

Unsurprisingly, Sinbad gets bored after a while and wanders back to pester Ja’far. “What are you going to be writing about next? Killing people with your ice-cold heart?” 

It’s just supposed to be an offhanded comment and slight allusion to the little fuzzy and angry assassin Sinbad remembers-- that is, until he sees Jafar's hesitation. Sinbad feels himself pale (as well as a ghost can, anyways). “No. Ja’far. You didn’t.”

“..... It wasn’t a poem.” Ja’far mutters, his head down and still scribbling. “You told me a lot about my past and I wanted to do my own take on it.”

Sinbad isn’t really sure how to react properly so he just flops around for a bit before sliding down against Ja’far’s desk, his face buried in his hands. “God, Ja’far. While I full heartedly encourage you to pursue your passion for literacy, I don’t need  _ you  _ writing a bad parody of your past life. I’ve already written one already wrote one for you, as your old self used to remind and chastise me for. You’re going to embarrass us both.”

“It’s not embarrassing,” Ja’far mutters. There’s a slight edge to his tone as he turns his chair away from Sinbad slightly. “It was who I was and I’m accepting that so I can move on with my life without any regrets.”

“Ja’far, that happened in another life. In another universe, even. You’ve ‘moved on’ for quite a while now since then, considering the fact that you’ve forgot completely about your past self until I came along.” Sinbad tries tugging at the other, “Go for a walk or something. Get some sunshine.”

Ja’far hisses and retreats even more into his black hood. “Sunlight burns my skin.” He pauses for a moment and swivels around to face Sinbad. “You’ve never cared much about what my hobbies and likes were before this. Why now?”

“Dunno,” Sinbad rests his chin on his hands and stares at Ja’far quizzically. “It’s interesting. I’m seeing you grow up and change and right now it’s like you’ve reverted back to your assassin persona. Or well, grew into it. When I first met you, you were all about this,” he wriggles his fingers at the other, “Dark and broody stuff.”

Ja’far makes a face. “I killed people back then. What would you expect?”

“What? Oh, not that. You were just… very dramatic. It was funny because you’d go around proclaiming about how awesome and strong you were, even though you only came up to my hip. There was a lot of ‘my heart has long since been frozen’ and ‘the life I leave deserves no redemption’. It was a bit over the top, but I think we all were back then.”

Ja’far nods thoughtfully and jots the words ‘frozen’ and ‘redemption’ down for his brainstorm just as Sinbad spots a small rectangular box. 

“Hey, what’s that?”

“Eyeliner and eyeshadow.” Ja’far takes the top off so Sinbad can observe the black powder in awe. “Rurumu said I could borrow it.”

“I think we used something like that, but it was a lot messier and thicker. Mostly used for important and sentimental ceremonies. I looked great with it.”

“Really?” Ja’far picks up the eyeliner pen gingerly. “So how do I do this?”

“Smooth, steady hand. It’s okay to go slow, no one gets it right the first time. Well, unless you’re going for a smudged look.”

Ja’far shrugs and begins to outline the entire shape of his eye. “Good enough.”

* * *

 

Sinbad gets over the shock of Ja’far’s new fashion and music tastes rather quickly and instead tries to be as supportive as he can. Of course, he can’t help but correct a few mistakes in Ja’far’s writing (“Ja’far, I don’t think living for a bit over 2000 years was so bad I cried tears of blood,”) but Sinbad is encouraging all the same and even offers to help Ja’far pick out the darkest color eyeshadow to color his lids with. He still follows Ja’far to school everyday, as he did in sixth grade, and Sinbad makes it his mission to point out other kids who share the same fashion sense as Ja’far and help him brainstorm words and ideas for his poetry during math class.

Ja’far appreciates it more than he thinks he does in his melodramatic “assassin”mindset, and most lunches are spent discussing with Sinbad the dark side of animated television shows or proofreading the poem Ja’far wrote the night before. His newfound interest doesn’t take that much of a toll on his already meager social life nor his academics, with Ja’far remaining ahead in his studies despite Sinbad’s nagging about the damage his ears must be taking from his punk rock music.

It’s not until the last month of school and finals week that Ja’far puts down his notebook and eyeliner and gets down to work studying, and it’s not until summer that he finally picks the battered book up again.

He doesn’t do it willingly. Ja’far is leafing through his seventh grade papers and textbooks and sorting them into two piles of stuff he wants to keep and the other stuff he’d rather forget when he stumbles upon the notebook.

Sinbad looks up from where he’s reading the one-page essay Ja’far wrote within half an hour for his humanities exam. “Ah, I was hoping you’d start that up again. I’ve been thinking about a few ideas I think would make great poems. Some taken from my own experiences, of course.”

Ja’far says nothing as he looks through the notebook, his expression growing more stricken by the minute. “Oh god,” he looks up at Sinbad, looking like nothing short of shell shocked. “You let me  _ write  _ this?”

Sinbad strolls over, “I don’t see anything wrong with it. You looked like you were having fun so I went along. And I still think you look better with winged eyeliner instead of just outlining your eye shape with it.”

Ja’far groans and tosses the book as far away from him as he can. “Shut up. I can’t believe myself.”

“If it’s any consolation, you grew out of it quicker than you did in your past life. Took you a while to stop cussing and acting like you were the greatest assassin ever, though you did regret it for the rest of your life.”

“Stop talking,” Ja’far trudges to his bed and curls up into a small ball, wanting to disappear for the rest of his life so he doesn’t have to face anyone ever again. “Speak of this again and I’m going to kill your stupid ghost ass one more time.”

* * *

Other than crippling embarrassment, the summer after seventh grade is relatively uneventful, with one notable exception.

“Uh oh,” Ja’far mutters as soon as he walks into the hospital room.  

Rurumu laughs, and Hinahoho sighs.  “Not exactly the response most mothers appreciate, Ja’far.”  

Ja’far can hear the smile in his voice anyway.  “Um, two for the price of one?” he suggests.  

“Two little sisters,” Rurumu agrees, holding one baby out slightly and indicating Ja’far should take her.  

Ja’far hurries over to take the proffered baby, carefully tucking her head into the crook of his elbow before bending his neck to examine her.  Just like every other newborn he’s seen, she’s wrinkly and red with puffy eyelids and a snotty nose.  The tiny hands grabbing at the blanket she’s wrapped in are cute, though.  And really, what can he do besides want to protect something so fragile?  

“Identical?” Ja’far asks.  They sure look identical to him, but it’s rather hard to tell.

“Don’t think so, but we’ll only know with time,” Hinahoho answers.  

Ja’far watches a sleepy yawn crack tiny features and smiles.  “Very cute.”  

“We want you to name them.”

“Me?”  Ja’far winces as his voice cracks with the question.

“I trust you not to come up with something too ridiculous,” Rurumu says with a smile.

“I can’t name your kids!”  That seems like far too much responsibility.

“Sure you can!”  Hinahoho pats Ja’far far too hard on the shoulder.  “With the amount of babysitting duty we put you through, I think you’ve earned it.”

Ja’far frowns down at the infant in his arms.  “Can I at least have some time to think it over?”  

“Of course.  They’ll still be in the hospital for a few days.”

“Alright.  Guess I better find a computer and get on that, then,” Ja’far says with slight trepidation, still glancing intermittently at his parents to make sure they’re actually serious.  

“They’ll be honored to be named by their big brother,” Rurumu reassures after about the tenth nervous glance.

Ja’far hides a wobbling smile and bites back a sniffle.  

* * *

On the first day of eighth grade, Ja’far walks into his third period science class and sees someone he has never met before.  Unlike math, which is more flexible in skill level, science is fairly standard, so Ja’far is surprised by this.  He knows everyone in his age group, so she must be new.  But there she is regardless, cautious and intimidated, sitting on the far side of the room and midway back, next to the window with two short, turquoise pigtails sprouting out of her head.  At Sinbad’s urging, he sits next to her.  

Yamuraiha is actually a year younger than him, and simply tested out of her seventh grade class.  She is awkward, but just as smart as him, and Ja’far takes to her immediately.  Though she is best at biology and he at math, they read the same books and think about the same things, and Ja’far finds he can have conversations with her without worrying whether the topics he brings up are appropriate or not.  

It isn’t until they are two months into their friendship that Sinbad reveals Yamuraiha had been a central figure in their lives before.  

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” Ja’far asks, walking home from school.  “If she was around before, you probably want her around again.”  

Sinbad shrugs.  “I’m certainly glad she is here now, but I don’t want this life to be directed by a previous one,” he says.  “It would be unfair.  You all happened to fall in behind me once, but that was a very different time, and I don’t want to force you all together simply because I want to relive the past.”  

“But you knew I’d like her,” Ja’far insists.  “You were the one who told me to sit by her at first.”  

Sinbad purses his lips.  “I suppose I did.  But I want you to have friends; normal, human friends.  I recognized her, and you guys got on well enough before, so I figured you might do so again.”  

“So we were friends before?” Ja’far asks.

“Not like you are now,” Sinbad smiles thoughtfully.  “By the time we picked up Yamuraiha, you were too far up the chain of command to get to communicate with other people your age like you should have been.  It’s one of many things I regret, but there was no one else to take up the responsibility but you.  You and Yamuraiha always made good drinking buddies, but your focuses in governing kept you separate.  I’m glad you get to be close this time.”  

“Oh.  Well, I guess you have to put needs before wants.  You shouldn’t regret doing what needed to be done,” Ja’far replies.  

“I didn’t, at the time,” Sinbad agrees.  “But you were all just kids.  I was just a kid too, honestly.  It’s easy to look back and regret it, and I do.  But in the end, we were just kids trying to survive, which we did spectacularly.”  

Yamuraiha comes scampering back from the bathroom, hands still slightly wet, and so Ja’far can’t do anything but give a shrug in reply to Sinbad.  She immediately resumes their previous conversation, chattering away happily as they walk to lunch.  Ja’far only half-listens because he’s still very conscious of Sinbad peering at him in concentration.  

“You should see if she wants to come over to your house, later,” Sinbad suggests.

Ja’far just frowns at him quickly before turning his half-feigned attention back to Yamuraiha.  

“Don’t look at me like that.  Your parents worry that you don’t have friends.  You might even have fun doing something besides brooding all evening.”  

Ja’far badly wants to argue, but can’t.  

“Don’t be a chicken, just ask.”  Truth be told, Sinbad is a bit worried about Ja’far’s reclusive tendencies.  The way he figures it, Yamuraiha is a safe starting place for Ja’far to learn social skills, seeing as she’s just as awkward as him, if not more so.  

Ja’far flips Sinbad off where Yamuraiha can’t see.  He clears his throat and waits for a break in her excited chatter. “Hey Yamu?”

“Mhm?”

“Are you busy after school today?”

“Um, no.  Did you need help with something?”

Ja’far shakes his head.  “No, just wondered if you wanted to...come over and hang out?”  His nerves get the better of him and his statement comes out as more of a hesitant question.

“Like… at your house?”

“Yeah.  Or somewhere else, but I don’t really know where else to go.  It’s fine if you don’t want to, I don’t really have anything to do anyway.”  

“Sure!  I mean I’ll have to ask my dad, but he probably won’t mind.”

“Really?”

Yamuraiha giggles at the surprise on his face.  “I don’t exactly have a lot of friends.  Even not doing anything sounds better than going home by myself again.”  

“I don’t either,” Ja’far mumbles.  “It’s not exactly quiet at my house, though.”  

“You’ve got a lot of siblings, right?  That’s fine, I like kids.”

“Little kids?”

“Sure, I babysit for the neighbors sometimes, and they’ve got little kids.”  

They’ve reached the junction in the hallway at which they have to split to go to separate classes.  “Um, see you after school, then?”  Ja’far edges out.

“Yep!”  

Ja’far heaves a sigh of relief as soon as Yamuraiha disappears around the corner, and Sinbad does his best to give him a one-man round of applause.

“Shut up, would you?”

Sinbad stops clapping but keeps grinning irritatingly.  “You would have thought you were trying to propose, with how nervous you were.”

“I haven’t had nice houses to invite friends back to, Sin.  It’s not like I’d done that before.”  

“Still, though.  It was kind of funny.”  

“You’re the one who put me up to it!  Now I don’t even know what to do.  What do normal people do with their friends?”

Sinbad shrugs.  “You’ll figure it out.”

“Gee, thanks for all the help.”  Ja’far tries not to panic over his realization that he has to now entertain another person.

“You talk to her fine at school, I don’t know what you’re so freaked out over.”  

“Yeah, because we have school to talk about!”

“Well you talk to me about plenty of things besides school.  I’m sure you’re capable of it.” 

“You’re different!  You’re… whatever.”

Sinbad tries not to flinch slightly at the implication that he’s somehow less real.  It’s not untrue, after all, and Ja’far is just nervous.  “I think you are forgetting that Yamuraiha has even fewer friends than you do.  She won’t be hard to entertain.”  

“I guess.”

“You’ll be fine, I promise.  Go to class and worry about it later.”

Ja’far grumbles one last time before doing so, and Sinbad leaves him at the door.

  
  


Sinbad is right, in the end.  It’s not that hard to just talk like normal.  He normally talks most of the way home from school, he just has a different conversation partner, this time.  Ja’far worries initially that Sinbad has not made an appearance since lunch, but it’s much easier to hold normal conversation without his presence lurking somewhere in the background, so Ja’far lets it go.

It isn’t long before he and Yamuraiha are standing in front of his home, and Ja’far braces himself as he opens the door.

“Ja’fa’s home!” is the shout that greets him, shortly followed by slapping of bare feet along wooden floors.  Ja’far tries not to stumble as a rather heavy toddler hits him at full speed, and bends down to pick Kikiriku up after he regains his balance.  

“You’re going to be too big for this ritual soon,” he informs Kikiriku.  “You’ll knock me over one of these days.”  

Instead of answering, Kikiriku instead peers around his shoulder, eyes wide and curious.  “Who dat?”  

Yamuraiha waves, a bit shy but smiling.  “I’m Yamuraiha.”

“Yam-y-ha.”  

“Close enough,” Ja’far agrees, lugging Kikiriku up higher on his hip.  Loud screeching from the direction of the kitchen prompts him to wince slightly, with an apologetic grimace at Yamuraiha.  “Sorry, the welcoming committee has been rather...rambunctious as of late.”  

“It’s alright, I like babies.”  

“It’s an acquired taste, I guess.”  Ja’far struggles down the hall while trying to shift Kikiriku onto his back.  “Well, the screaming is something that never really becomes pleasant.”  

He rounds the corner and delighted squealing only increases.  Ja’far plops Kikiriku back on the ground and makes his way over to the corner where the twins are trapped in their play pen.  “I don’t know what you two are screaming for,” he mutters as Yamuraiha makes her way over to peer over the gate with him.  He directs his next statement at her.  “I think they just hear the commotion Kiki causes and want to join.”  

“They just know their big brother is home and are excited to see him.”  Ja’far expects Rurumu to come out of the office door, but Yamuraiha jumps slightly.  “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” she corrects gently.  

“It’s alright.  Um…”

Rurumu smiles.  “You must be Yamuraiha.  I’m Rurumu, nice to meet you.”  

“Nice to meet you too.”  Yamuraiha cranes her neck up to meet soft eyes, and can’t help but notice that nothing about this woman resembles Ja’far in the slightest.  

“I have plenty of snacks in the fridge if you guys want any.”

Ja’far mutters a quick acknowledgment before Yamuraiha can politely turn her down.  

“Get Kiki’s juice out of the fridge while you’re there, would you Ja’far?” she calls in the middle of bending over to hoist one baby and then the other out of their pen.  “And the baby food jars.”

Ja’far returns with a stack of tupperware and the requested items, teetering slightly before managing to set them down on the counter.  He hands a sippy cup to the toddler milling about his feet and passes jars over to sit on high chair trays before turning back to Yamuraiha and shoving food across the counter to her.  “Eat whatever you’d like.”  

She pokes around awkwardly, not really sure how she should feel about helping herself to someone else’s things.  

“Really, eat anything,” Rurumu seconds between scooping baby food with a plastic spoon.  “Ja’far and my husband eat enough for a whole village, whatever you want to eat will pale in comparison.”

Ja’far flushes but doesn’t stop shoving crackers covered in cream cheese into his mouth, and Yamuraiha can’t help but giggle, taking some celery to dip into peanut butter.  

Occasionally looking to Rurumu for approval, Ja’far does his best to make conversation between bites.  He knows she’ll step in if he needs help, but he somehow manages to keep it from being too awkward and stilted until they’re both finished and the food is put away.  After making sure nothing else is needed from him, he grabs Yamuraiha and scampers up to his room where they do little but watch jittery videos of cats falling down and giggle over weird wikipedia articles.  Part of Ja’far can’t help but nag at him that this is a terrible waste of time, but the rest of him is still just a kid, and has to admit it’s fun.  

“You look nothing like your mom,” Yamuraiha brings up eventually.

Ja’far frowns.  “Yeah.  I’m adopted.”

“You are?”

“Uh, yeah.  Did you not know that?”  Ja’far had assumed she did.

“Not unless you told me and I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Oh, sorry.  I must have just forgotten; I thought everyone kind of just knew, at this point.  I wasn’t trying to hide it or anything!” he adds after, nervous she’ll take it badly.

“It’s alright!” she stutters and tries to smooth over his agitation.  “You really might have told me, or I heard it, and just wasn’t paying attention.  I’m adopted too, actually.”  

“You are?”  Ja’far had known her mother wasn’t in the equation, but had never wanted to ask.

“Yeah, but I was really little, so it’s not like I know any different.”  

Ja’far nods.  “That’s probably for the best.”  

“I hope so.”  Yamuraiha tactfully avoids the implication that Ja’far did not have such a fortuitous fate, and clicks the next video in hopes of changing the conversation.

* * *

In fact, Ja’far’s first kiss is Yamuraiha, who he gets along with famously by the time they’ve known each other for six months.  They’re only a year apart, fourteen and thirteen, and it is done more out of curiosity than any attraction.  They both conclude it is slightly awkward and sticky, and decide not to do it again.  

Sinbad thinks it’s hilarious, and does not hesitate to let Ja’far know.  

Hinahoho and Rurumu are both just happy Ja’far is bringing a friend home, even if it’s to work on a science fair project.  

* * *

“Are you  _ sure _ you don’t have a crush on Yamuraiha?” Sinbad wheedles one day.

“No!”  At Sinbad’s surprised look, Ja’far stumbles.  “I mean yes!  Yes, I’m sure I don’t have a crush on her and no, I do not have a crush on her.”  

Sinbad pouts.  

“Why are you so fixated on this?” Ja’far sighs in exasperation.

“I don’t know, I think you guys would be cute.”  Sinbad bites his lip in thought.  “I mean, not forever, but for a little while, while you’re still young.”  

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“You should be.”  

There’s a moment of silence, and Ja’far watches the gears in Sinbad’s head turn with worrying velocity, brows scrunched as he concentrated.  Suddenly, his eyes lit and face changed and Ja’far braced himself for whatever absurd idea he was about to be assaulted with.

“So, who did you used to write all those silly poems about?”  

Ja’far flinches, having not expected that particular question.  “No one,” he rushes to reply.  “It was more just a conceptual thing.”

“Conceptual my ass,” Sinbad retaliates.  “No kid is that concerned with the  _ concept  _ of love.  You’re thinking about someone in particular.”

“I assure you I’m not.”  

“Ja’far, I’ve seen a few kids grow up in my day.  There’s no point in denying it; I’m not as stupid as you think I am.”  

“Why are you so obsessed with my love life, or lack thereof?” Ja’far tries to divert the question by attacking instead.  

“I’m not  _ obsessed _ , I’m just trying to get you to face the facts!”

“ _ Why _ ?  It’s, frankly, incredibly irritating!”  Not to mention slightly agonizing, constantly trying to hide the fact that he could stare at Sinbad all day like some lovesick puppy.  

“I just want the best for you!”  

Ja’far takes an annoyed breath to try and calm himself.  “You clearly don’t, or you’d leave well enough alone.”  Sinbad flinches slightly, and Ja’far seizes upon the moment of weakness.  “I know something about this is bothering you more than you’re saying, so don’t pretend like I’m the only one withholding information.”  Ja’far can see the hesitance in his eyes and senses victory, at least temporarily.  “Did I get killed by my psychotic wife or something, before?  Why are you so worried?”  

Sinbad lets out a choked cough that sounds like it could be laughter if his face weren’t so full of...something.  Sadness?  Fear?  Guilt?  Ja’far can’t tell, but it’s nothing good.  

“Shit, I didn’t actually get killed by my wife, did I?”

Sinbad immediately raises his hands and waves them aggressively in disagreement.  “No, definitely not.”

“...so?  Why are you so bothered?”

“Maybe I’m just bored and I think it’d be fun to watch.”

Ja’far just looks at him in critical disbelief.  

“You know what?  You keep your secrets, I’ll keep mine.”

“If you insist.”

“I do,” Sinbad retorts.  “And don’t think I don’t know what you did, diverting my questions like that,” Sinbad adds, slightly accusatory.  “Because I do.”  

Ja’far decides it’s best to just leave it at that and doesn’t reply, but the tension lingers, far in the background, all through spring and summer.  For the first time since they met, there are secrets they both know aren’t being told.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also why does ao3 keep adding my old notes from the first chapter down here


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ......oops. Been a while. School is kicking my ass....but at least it's longish?

Ja’far trudges off to his first day of high school with pants that are slightly too long and a backpack that is amusingly large.  Sinbad decides not to point it out; Ja’far has taken to getting self-conscious at the strangest things, as of late.  He doesn’t remember him having such insecurities before, but then again, he was distracted by a lot of other things, the last time he saw Ja’far grow up.  As Ja’far enters the campus, he finds something else to occupy his attention anyway.

“Drakon!” Sinbad shouts suddenly from his side.  He points to an older teenager and starts laughing hysterically.  

“What’s so funny?” Ja’far asks.  “And I thought Drakon was a dragon.”  

“I just forgot how silly his hair was,” Sinbad gets out between giggles.  “And, I mean, I never saw him as a human this old, but he wasn’t  _ always  _ a dragon.”  

“Like you’re one to talk about silly hair,” Ja’far mutters.  

Drakon turns around, giving Ja’far a better view of his face, and he examines him with a critical eye.  

“He’s not bad looking, once you get past the greasy hair,” Ja’far notes.  “Cool eyes.”  

Sinbad looks slightly horrified.  “Ja’far you can’t have a crush on Drakon!”  

“I don’t have a  _ crush _ , Sin.  I was just making an observation.  You always said he looked funny as a kid; I don’t think he looks that funny.”  

“Sure he does, look at his hair.”  

Ja’far just rolls his eyes, clearly Sinbad has no self-awareness when it comes to his own appearance, and never will.  

“The girl with the pink hair he is very clearly mooning after is Serendine,” Sinbad continues to point out, distracted once more. “She told me to marry her, once.”

Ja’far barely holds back a squawk of surprise.  “Why?”  Sinbad isn’t exactly forthcoming about the details of his past, but marriage is generally a point worth sharing. 

Sinbad shrugs.  “Mutual benefit.  She had a much better grasp on things than I did, at that point.  Possibly more than I ever did, in retrospect.  Maybe I should have listened, but then she… well.  It didn’t matter much, in the end.  Drakon  _ actually  _ ended up with her,” he points to a tall, dark-haired girl speaking with Serendine.  “And they were a much better fit, anyway.  He’d never shut up about her.”  

“Uh… alright.”  Ja’far doesn’t know what he is supposed to do with that information.  He can hear a tightness in his voice that means Sinbad is edging around a sensitive topic again, and isn’t in a situation where he can push for explanations.  

“Basically, if you ever make friends with Drakon, do your best to talk him in the direction of the right girl,” Sinbad clarifies.

“I’ll try,” Ja’far mutters uncertainly.  “What happened to not trying to influence this life based on a past one?”  

“Oh, I gave up on that awhile ago,” Sinbad says without a hint of shame.  “Besides, Serendine was really cruel to Drakon, at one point, even though he was just trying to help.  She didn’t really mean it, they were all desperate and young, but it was very telling.  He needs to stop acting like a lovesick puppy.”  

Ja’far purses his lips.  “If you say so.  I wouldn’t worry too much about teenage relationships.” 

“When  _ are  _ you going to start worrying about relationships?”

“I thought we mutually agreed this was a topic not to be discussed; unless you want to give me some reasoning for its importance, that is.”

Sinbad huffs and crosses his arms over his chest, but otherwise gives no reply.

“Now leave me alone, would you?  I can only talk out of the corner of my mouth for so long before someone notices.”

“I do suppose that would be a bad first impression.”  

Sinbad floats off, and Ja’far pulls up his schedule on his phone to double-check he knows where he’s going.

* * *

 

High school Ja’far, for better or worse, is not too dissimilar from middle school Ja’far, Sinbad observes.  He finds his classes easily, begins studying for them with little effort, comes off as polite but not too prudish, and talks a lot without really saying anything at all.  Ja’far is quick to pick up on who will be advantageous to be close to, teachers and students alike, and acts accordingly.  He’s always been able to come across as soft-spoken, courteous, and well-meaning when he wants to; apparently this new environment is no different.

Sinbad thinks the consistency shouldn’t be surprising, seeing as he barely noticed Ja’far change at all between the ages of ten and seventeen, before.  For all his fits of temper and passion that he so tries to hide, Ja’far is a stolid kid at his core, and appears to always weather the storm with, if not patience, at least quiet resignation.  

Sinbad still thinks he could be doing better, on the social front it nothing else, and decides to make it clear by the time the first week has passed.

“You really need to join a club or something,” he suggests for perhaps the tenth time. 

“I told you, clubs are bullshit.  No one actually does anything,” Ja’far replies with a puff of air, trudging mechanically up the trail.

“You’ve got to do  _ something  _ besides school, Ja’far.”

“I’m doing it right now.  Outside.  Fresh air.  Just what kids these days need, or so I’ve been told.”  

Ja’far had taken up hiking shortly after middle school graduation. He doesn’t exactly like hiking, or at least, has never felt a particular draw to it, but it provides him with an environment in which no one is around to hear him talking and gesticulating wildly to thin air, like he’s doing now.

“Your passive aggression exceeds your small frame,” Sinbad mutters, knowing he’s probably guilty of saying some such thing himself.  He still thinks it’s true, but that’s not what Ja’far is angry about.  “I mean something  _ social. _ ”  

“I’m socializing right now, too.”  

“Which is why you wander off into the wilderness to do it.”  

“Sin, stop edging around the issue.”

“Fine.  You need friends that aren’t me.   _ Real  _ friends.”

“You’re  _ my _ real friend,” Ja’far glowers.

Sinbad throws his hands up in exasperation.  “You know what I mean, Ja’far.”

“Yamuraiha is my friend.”

“And a lovely, reclusive pair the two of you make.  But you’re going to need more than one person in your social circle to get along in life, and she’s still a year behind you.”  

“Not everyone is a social butterfly like you,” Ja’far barely holds the venom back from his voice.  It’s not that he doesn’t know Sinbad is right, only that he doesn’t want to admit it.

“No, but everyone has to learn to function in society.  Which, for better or worse, means learning communication with other human beings.   _ Visible, living  _ human beings,” he adds hurriedly, seeing the stubborn scowl on Ja’far’s face.  

“I know how to communicate.”

“Ja’far.”

“Fine, if it makes you happy.”

“It would.”

“I was thinking about trying out for wrestling next week, anyway,” Ja’far adds after a few puffs for breath.

“Really, wrestling?”  Sinbad doesn’t even try to hide his surprise.  It isn’t a very...Ja’far-like sport.  

“You’re the one who told me to get involved in a sport.”

“Yeah, that just wasn’t the one I thought you’d pick.”

“I’m so tiny I’ll make it into the lowest weight class easily.  And you know I can hold my own in a fight, even against people who aren’t as small as me.”

“I guess, but wrestling has rules.  It’s not a street fight.”

“I’m good at following rules, too.”

“That you are, I suppose.”  Sinbad shrugs off his bemusement.  “Well don’t let me stop you.”  

“Wasn’t going to.”

* * *

 

Sinbad’s confusion on the topic is lost when Ja’far shows up to tryouts and Sinbad sees who the captain of the team is.

“Ja’far, you’re doing this for the wrong reasons,” he scolds immediately.

Ja’far shoots him a glare but doesn’t respond.

“I’m serious, get out of here and don’t be an idiot.”

Ja’far flips him off before sniffing and turning pointedly away.  

“Ja’far--”

In response, Ja’far scoots down the bleacher he’s seated himself on, farther away from Sinbad.  

Sinbad sighs.  “Fine, have it your way.  We’re not done with this, though.”  

Ja’far is saved from any sort of negative response by a few loud claps, and the students shortly fall silent.  

“Alright, thank you all for your patience,” a gruff voice calls out, and Sinbad can’t help a reflexive roll of his eyes.  “There are a lot of you, but we’ll try to make this quick.  My name is Drakon, and I’ll be your team captain, should you end up joining us.”

“At least he went for the short name,” Sinbad mutters.

“Don’t worry if you haven’t done this before, a lot of new people try out every year, and you’re all welcome to stay and learn,” Drakon continues.  “I just need new people in one group,” he points to his left, “and those returning in another.”  

Everyone shuffles accordingly until two separate groups have formed.  A coach gets up from his seat and drifts over to begin supervising and directing the older, returning students, and Drakon goes over to the younger ones.  Ja’far watches absently as he summarizes a few basic strategies, observes as the more experienced students demonstrate, and then goes where he’s directed as they are all paired off, roughly by size.  

Ja’far holds back a sigh as he still ends up looking  _ up _ at his partner; hopefully he’ll start growing sooner rather than later.   He makes brief and polite conversation and introductions, but otherwise just waits his turn, watching other newcomers fumble through their moves messily, and then he’s being ushered onto the mats.  

He feels a spike of anxiety as the whistle blows, but then his instincts take over.  It’s only a matter of seconds before Ja’far is inside the larger boy’s hesitant guard, arm wrapped in his, and his opponent is over his shoulder and flat on his back, a bit short on wind.  

“Sorry,” Ja’far mumbles, when it becomes clear the other boy is either too surprised or too out of breath to get up.  He looks up at Drakon in question.

“Have to pin him if you want to win,” is the flat reply, though Ja’far notices yellow eyes are a bit wide.

“Uh, I don’t think he’s getting up.”

“I don’t make the rules, I just enforce them.”

“If you say so…” Ja’far kneels down to pin his opponent with his elbows, despite it being obvious that he isn’t going to put up a fight, then gets up and rocks to sit on his heels.  He knows the other boy isn’t hurt, but still feels a bit bad.  “You alright?” he asks.   

He coughs a few times, then sits up.  “Yeah, I’m fine.  Just surprised and a bit winded.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Drakon scolds.  “You did what you were supposed to, even if it was barely legal.”

“I’ll apologize if I want,” Ja’far mutters, low enough that he won’t be heard, and then scrambles to his feet.

The next hour proceeds in much the same way; Ja’far waits his turn, gets his new partner, and promptly puts them flat on the mat.  He gets marked down in points a few times for fouled moves, but it’s not so hard to learn and pick up what he’s doing wrong and do it right the next time.  It’s easy, with such inexperienced opponents, to take them off guard fast enough that he doesn’t need to know more than a couple strategies.  It isn’t long before Ja’far runs out of opponents roughly his size, but that’s never stopped him before and doesn’t stop him now.  Every one of them ends up pinned on the mat.  

Ja’far thinks the surprise should wear off after everyone has seen it a couple times, but, based up on facial expressions, it hasn’t; so he tries to make the whole thing as casual and cursory as possible.  He’s actually a bit relieved once it is all over after a few matches for each of them, and quietly takes his seat as Drakon gives some speech about everyone doing their best.  He tunes back in when specifics start getting mentioned; teams being assigned next week and everyone needing to fill out forms to obtain the proper gear.

“I’ll help,” Ja’far offers, seeing the beleaguered expression Drakon’s face as he brings it up.

Drakon startles slightly.  “With?”

“Everyone’s papers for gear.  I’ll help sort everything out.  I assume there are different sizes and such.”  It really won’t take him very long, and he _ is _ doing this because he’s curious about his former friends.  

“I mean… if you want to.”  Drakon appears a bit confused at the offer.

“I’m good at organizing, and I’m new here, so I won’t mind getting to know people,” Ja’far offers by way of explanation.  

“Alright, I guess.  Best of luck getting everyone to follow through.”  

Ja’far closes his eyes and smiles benignly.  “Oh trust me, I’m good at that too.”  

“See you next week then.”  

“Sure.”  He sees a head of long, dark hair poke into the gym doors.  “Better hurry up, your girlfriend is waiting for you.”

“What?”  Drakon turns in the direction Ja’far is facing, and flushes.  “No, no, not my girlfriend!  Just a friend!  Friend of a….friend, really.”

“Uh, ok.  Well she’s been waiting for a while anyway.  See you next week.”

“Um, yes, I’ll -- I’ll see you.”

Ja’far nods politely once more and saunters off.

As soon as he’s out of the crowd, Sinbad is on him, face unusually stern.  “Out back by the track, Ja’far.”

Ja’far frowns at him quizzically.

“Now.”

“Right this second?” Ja’far taps the text into his phone and holds it up.

“Yes, this second,” Sinbad demands.  “We need to talk.”

Ja’far frowns once more but strides off where he’d bid, venturing a bit farther out and onto the quiet, single-track, dirt trail that leads up to the school fields.  He turns around and plants his hands on his hips.  “Yes?”

“You made a damn spectacle of yourself!”

“You’re the one who told me to get involved and socialize.”

“I didn’t mean like  _ that _ !”  

Ja’far crosses his arms.  “Did I do something embarrassing?  I thought I did well, all things considered.” 

“You did very well; well enough that you stuck out and aren’t going to be able to leave, now!”

Ja’far rolls his eyes.  “It’s not prison.  People will talk for a day or two, and then they’ll move on.”

“Not if you keep drawing attention like that!”

“You wanted me to be more socially constructive, and now you’re upset that I’m doing so!  There’s no winning with you!” Ja’far spits in exasperation.

“I don’t want you to do this for me, Ja’far.  You don’t have to make everything like it was!”

“The fact that you  _ told  _ me to do it aside, have you ever considered that maybe  _ I’m  _ curious about these people, too?  It’s not all about you!  You can’t blame me for wanting to know!”

“It’s not like it was!  They’re not like they were!  I’m not like I was, and neither are you!”  

“So?”

“Too much of your life already centers around me!”

“And whose fault is that?”

Sinbad flinches and opens his mouth, but no words come out.

“That came out wrong,” Ja’far mutters.  “You know I don’t mean it like that.”

“I’m pretty sure it came out just how you meant it,” he answers flatly.

“Stop being such a child.  I just meant I don’t want you telling me one thing and then telling me the opposite.  It’s impossible to please you.”

“Then stop living your life to please me, since apparently I’m just in the way.”

Ja’far rolls his eyes up into his forehead with a huff.  “Sin--”

But Sinbad is already gone, and Ja’far stares at the empty space for a moment before letting his tense posture drop with a sigh.  “...you have the emotional tolerance of a turnip,” he finishes, just in case Sinbad is listening, and stomps off to collect his things before beginning his trek home.

* * *

 

Ja’far finds his walk home rather empty without Sinbad, but just plugs in some headphones and zones out until he’s there.  He deals with the usual stampede of childish greetings, household duties, and studying before showering, putting on his pajamas, and rolling into bed.  It’s a bit disconcerting to be without Sinbad still, all these hours later, but Ja’far decides there’s nothing to be done until Sinbad thinks things over and decides to come back.  He lets his eyes shut and resolves not to worry about it.

Ja’far jerks awake before he’s even really asleep, gasping for air.  He takes a few deep breaths and calms, drifting off once more; in vain, because he jerks awake again within seconds.  Even exhausted as he is, his mind won’t stop whirring, bringing on sensations he doesn’t even consciously remember, though perhaps that is just by virtue of how much he wanted to forget.  Sometimes he hurts, sometimes he’s hungry, sometimes he’s terrified of the dark in his tiny room and no one comes for him, no matter how much he claws at the door and screams.  

The specifics of the situation don’t matter, only that they fill him with such a visceral fear that, as soon as Ja’far feels it rising unbidden, paralyzes him to the spot.  It happens too fast for Ja’far to understand, but suddenly he has no air, his limbs are shaking, and terrified, bewildered tears are leaking from his eyes as he tries to sob and fails between hyperventilations, pulse rocketing in his head.

“Sin,” he ekes out, not knowing who else to call for when he can’t breathe and can’t move.  Even with their recent spat, it’s instinctual to call out to the only person who is almost always in earshot of him.

After what feels like an eternity of helpless panting, but is probably only a handful of seconds, Sinbad’s head pops through the wall next to Ja’far’s bedroom window.  “Ja’far?” he whispers.  “Are you asleep?”

Ja’far, in a dissociated, floaty way, stocks away the fact that he apparently calls out for Sinbad in his sleep for later embarrassment.  All he can really do is make a small, despairing noise and shake his head violently.  

“What?  I can’t hear--” Sinbad finally catches proper sight of Ja’far against the wall under his blankets, compressed into the tightest ball he can manage.  “Ah.  Got it.”  

Ja’far doesn’t bother to look up at Sinbad, but the recognition in his voice at least assures Ja’far that he knows what’s happening.  

Sinbad reaches out to touch instinctively, like he’s done for Ja’far a hundred times, but is left growling in frustration when he can’t even offer a comforting hand.  He immediately softens it into a sigh, not wanting to cause Ja’far further alarm, let alone think he’s angry at him.  Sinbad settles close to Ja’far on the bed, left with no other way to comfort him.  Ja’far would shy away from nearly all contact when he was like this, but Sinbad has always been one of the select few who was allowed, and apparently that hadn’t changed.  He’d get Rurumu if he could, but he can’t, and with no other way to physically soothe, Sinbad tries to take deep and audible breaths in hope that Ja’far will catch on to the rhythm.  

“Old stuff, right?” he asks after a moment.  “Stuff that scares you?”  

Ja’far sniffs, pants, and nods.  

“It’ll pass.  I know it feels terrible, but you’ll be fine; it’s nothing dangerous.” 

“I can’t-- can’t stop seeing it.”  

Sinbad hums thoughtfully, half to give himself time and half to give Ja’far something to listen to.  “I know.  It’s happened to me a couple times, too.  There’s really nothing you can do but breathe and wait for it to stop.”  

Ja’far just gives a jerky nod in reply.

“I did wonder if this was going to happen,” Sinbad murmurs, trying to keep up the background noise at the very least, even if he can’t touch.  “You were older, last time.”  

“I don’t--” Ja’far hiccups, “I was fine for all the years before now.”  

“Yeah.  You were fine for years before, too.  But you’re not in survival mode anymore, and you’re growing a lot, and you brain is trying to process.”

“Stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Sinbad soothes.  “It’s normal.  It would be scarier to go through what you did and  _ not  _ have a reaction.”  He receives no reply, and decides to continue to ramble on.  “You know, the first time I saw this happen to you, I thought you were dying or something.  My mom died from a lung disease, and so the gasping scared me, I think.  You thought you were dying too, because no one knew any better, so I just ended up making a bigger fuss than anyone needed to make, you ended up more scared, and it was all fine anyway.  At least the next time it happened, and then when it happened to me, I knew what it was.  It always blows over eventually.  It helps to have someone with you.”  

Sinbad pauses to look over at Ja’far’s crumpled form.  His breathing has calmed slightly, but is still far too fast.  His skin is blotchy and his extremities shaking intermittently.  “You want to go for a walk?  Staying in your bed is just going to make you have bad associations with your bed.”  

Ja’far shakes his head.

“Yeah you do, it’ll help to move a little, to go back to sleep later.  Just around the block; come on.”  

After a moment of hesitation, Ja’far uncurls from his ball and slowly places bare feet on the floor.  Sinbad follows him as he steps carefully down the stairs, attempting to minimize noise.  He doesn’t say anything out in the hall, knowing Ja’far won’t reply, but once outside in the brisk, night air, he has no such compunction.  

“See, fresh air feels better, right?”  

Ja’far heaves a shuddering sigh.  “Yeah, it does.”  

“Walk a little,” Sinbad suggests.  “Get the adrenaline out of your system.”  

Ja’far looks around a bit nervously, not that he really expects anyone out in the suburbs in the middle of the night, and starts walking down the block at Sinbad’s urging.  It does feel better to move, to feel damp air brushing against his cheeks, cold pavement against his feet.  He scrubs at his face, realizing there must be tear tracks down it.

“You can talk about if you want,” Sinbad interrupts the quiet.

“Don’t want to talk about it.”

“Ok, but you should go see a doctor or something.  We didn’t have those before, but you do now.”

“Don’t want to see a doctor.”

Sinbad sighs, letting irritation leak through now that Ja’far is no longer panicking.  “You need to do  _ something _ .  This is not going to be the last time this happens.”  

Ja’far’s steps falter slightly.  “It isn’t?”

“No, it isn’t.  You’re going to deal with this for the rest of your life, so you might as well figure out the best way to minimize it now.”  

“The rest of my  _ life _ ?”  Ja’far has a hard time comprehending having to survive that particular ordeal more than once, and feels his pulse start to escalate once more.

“Yes, as far as I know.  I mean, at least until your thirties.”  

“Like...a lot?”

“No, not a lot.  Much more when you were younger, and then you learned to get a handle on it.  It’s really alright, you just have to find a way to deal with it.”  

“And how do I deal with it, exactly?” If his voice goes a bit squeaky with anxiety, he figures Sinbad won’t call him on it.

“I don’t know, I’m not a trained therapist.  Mostly you used to just take preemptive action and find me or go snuggle with your kids, that I saw.”

“My kids?!” Ja’far chokes off the last word with a squeak as he remembers he really shouldn’t be raising his voice.  “I thought you said I didn’t have kids!”  

Sinbad holds back a laugh at the expression on his face, as it’s rather inappropriate for the situation.  “Sorry, I meant your siblings.  You used to go snuggle with them because I think it made you feel safe, to be in a family pack or something.  We just used to call them your kids because... uh, you know what?  Nevermind.”

“That doesn’t sound like something that should end in ‘nevermind.’” 

“It’s really not important.”  
“Your face says otherwise.  Spill it.”

Sinbad grimaces.  “I would, but I really don’t want to stress you out more than you already are.”

“You’re going to stress me out more by keeping me guessing,” Ja’far argues.  

Sinbad knows he’s probably right, but still doesn’t want to have this discussion at this particular time.  The stubborn frown on Ja’far’s face says he’s not going to get to choose, though.  “Alright, but you have to listen, first.  Just because something happened before, doesn’t mean it will happen again, ok?  I know it seems like I know a lot, but that’s just because I know personalities.  All the events and environment are very different.”

Ja’far just regards him in vague and impatient confusion.

“You get that, right?”

“Yes, I get it.”  

Sinbad gives him one more serious look before glancing away.  “Rurumu….died, when her kids were quite young.  You, being you, stepped up to the plate.  We called them your kids as a joke, but it wasn’t too far from the truth, honestly.”  

The expression of severe discomfort on Sinbad’s face is the only thing that stops Ja’far from blurting out more questions on the specifics of the subject.  He does ask one, though, if only for his own comfort.  “Is that why you started having...this?” Ja’far gestures vaguely to himself and his surroundings.

Sinbad’s face eases at the slight diversion from the topic.  “One reason of many.  Don’t worry about it; it’s all in the past.  Worry about where you are now.”  

Ja’far regards his front door for a moment, then keeps walking for a dozen yards before plonking down on the curb, not ready to abandon the soothing cool for sweaty sheets.  “I’d rather talk to you, if I have to talk to someone,” he says quietly.  “You’ve seen more than any therapist, I’m sure.”  

Sinbad forces a laugh.  “Doesn’t mean I know what to do about it.”

“Yeah, but you know me already.  I don’t want to have to explain it to someone else; they won’t understand better than you do, anyway.”  

Sinbad tries not to feel touched, that Ja’far is so comfortable with him.  Not that he hadn’t known, but Ja’far had never said as much that he ever recalled.  Knowing they were close was not the same as Ja’far being comfortable enough to say it.  Sinbad tries not to think too much about how Ja’far had never had so much trust in him, in his previous life.  

He fidgets into place next to Ja’far on the concrete, and Ja’far looks over at him briefly before dropping his head between his knees.  Old instincts flaring up, Sinbad resists the urge to drop his head onto Ja’far’s shoulder and nuzzle up against his neck.  

“Ok.”  Not that that summarizes anything he’s feeling in the least.

Sinbad waits patiently for a few minutes, listening to Ja’far breathe to make sure he’s alright.  When there’s still no response, he decides enough is enough.

“Well, are you going to get on with it then or not?” he scolds, tone teasing to keep it from being accusatory.

One dark eye pokes above Ja’far’s arm to glare at him, and Sinbad grins in an attempt to further alleviate the tension.

“I still don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Do it anyway, if you’re just going to sit there.”  

“No.”

“Just...summarize.”

“I just, you know,” Ja’far mumbles after a while.  “I was scared.”

“Reasonable, I think.”

Ja’far gives a soft huff.  “I lived, so perhaps not.”

“You know there’s more to it than that.”

“Yeah, I just said I don’t want to talk about it.”

Sinbad sighs.  “You don’t have to tell me your deepest, darkest terrors.  Just tell me something.”

“You already know it all.”

“Maybe.  But you still need to say it.”  

“Fine.  I was cold, or hot, in pain, hungry, and tired; I was scared!  And I could have dealt with that, but I was always, always, always alone!”  Ja’far’s tone escalates as he continues.  “Happy now?  You better be, because that’s all I’m going to say!”  Ja’far takes a few short breaths, then a few longer ones, trying to inconspicuously recover by hiding their volume.

Sinbad blinks at the sudden outburst, but accepts it with the ease of long practice.  With a much less traumatic adolescence he hadn’t seen it much; but things that made Ja’far intensely uncomfortable had almost always come out under the guise of anger.  That’s all he expects to hear on the matter for now, because Sinbad knows when to push and when to let it go, and he is midway through forming a reply when his thoughts are interrupted.

“Please don’t leave me, Sin,” Ja’far all-but-whispers, monotone.  The slight crack in his next sentence gives him away, however.  “I know we fight, but please don’t leave me alone.”

All comforting words fly from his head as Sinbad freezes, hearing the words he’s imagined into nightmares actually vibrating through space.  It doesn’t matter that Ja’far is half a foot shorter and fifteen years younger, all Sinbad can see is Ja’far silhouetted against a darkened city skyline, pale hair reflecting yellow in artificial light as he turns.  He’d been so certain, striding off, tired but confident; so sure that Sinbad had heard him.  

And he had; Ja’far would have known if he hadn’t.  What made it cruel was that Sinbad heard, and he had left anyway.

A muffled hiccup yanks Sinbad back into the present, and he steadies himself carefully.  “I won’t leave you, Ja’far,” he hurries to comfort, as soon as he’s sure his voice will come out even.  “I’ll never leave you again.”

* * *

 

Ja’far is sixteen when he realizes that whatever he and Sinbad had before must not have been entirely platonic.  Which explains a lot, really, but doesn’t resolve his current predicament, especially when he’s already itching from a particularly tedious day at school.

“Will you stop staring at my ass?” he gripes at Sinbad when he’s finally had enough of it.  “Other than the fact that I just don’t like it in general, it’s kind of creepy with our millennia-long age gap.”  

Sinbad immediately throws a hand over his own eyes.  “Sorry,” he squeaks out.  “I know it’s creepy, I don’t mean to do it.”  

“Go leer at some girls at the beach, if you’re that desperate,” Ja’far grumbles.  

Sinbad just floats there, staring at the ground and looking very morose except for the embarrassed flush on his cheeks.  

Ja’far sighs.  “Though I’m not sure I want to know, how old was I when you started sleeping with me, before?”  

A strangled sound comes from Sinbad’s direction.  “How do you know we slept together at all?”  

“Because you’re you, and apparently you’d rather get scolded for staring at  _ me _ than go sate your voyeuristic urges upon much more attractive people,” Ja’far answers with ease.  

“I don’t  _ like  _ to spy on people!”  Sinbad protests.  “I just don’t have a choice like this!  Except with you, I guess, who then gets mad at me for it.”  

Ja’far waits a moment to see if his answer is forthcoming, and when it isn’t asks, “...So?”  

Sinbad pinches his lips together.  “Night of your seventeenth birthday,” he mutters quietly.  

“What did that make you, twenty-one?”  Ja’far asks, and Sinbad nods shamefacedly.  “Guess it could be worse.  Still statutory rape, though.”  

“It wasn’t rape of any kind!  We were both more than willing, I assure you.”  Sinbad floats around to stand in front of Ja’far so he can stare at him seriously.  “The world was very different, then, and it really wasn’t at all strange, and certainly wasn’t strange between us.  I would never do anything like that to you, or anyone, for that matter.” 

Ja’far is forced to stop or walk through Sinbad, something he knows he hates.  “I know, Sin.  I was mostly teasing; you always say you weren’t a good person, but you don’t seem the type to do that.”  

Sinbad drifts back out of his path.  “Good, just had to make that clear.  Especially considering you pushed me around far more than I did you.”  

Ja’far laughs.  “I could push  _ you  _ of all people around at seventeen?”  

“You spent your whole life pushing me around,” Sinbad grumbles.  “And I was far from your first, so it’s not like you didn’t know how.”  

Ja’far’s eyebrows shoot up.  “Seriously?”  

“I told you, the world was very different.  And unfortunately, traveling with me did tend to make that sort of thing commonplace.”  He rubs nervously at the back of his neck, but decides Ja’far is old enough at this point that such topics are no different than what he already hears from friends and classmates.  “But no, I was probably number six or seven, I’d guess.  And definitely not your first man, unless you were just very naturally talented.”  

Ja’far does his best to take that in stride, despite being a bit disturbed and impressed by his previous self.  “Well, at least I know I swing both ways, for future reference.  And you might have been the first; men aren’t terribly hard to please, I’m told.”  

“They are the way you decided to go about it,” Sinbad mutters under his breath.  

“What?”  Ja’far draws his brows together in confusion, before understanding suddenly comes to him.  

Sinbad starts, not realizing he had said his previous sentence out loud.  As soon as he sees the look of realization on Ja’far’s face, he does his best to bury his face in his own hair.  

Ja’far points at him, grinning with the amusement of finding a new point of leverage.  “You took it up the ass!” he crows.  Sinbad’s face just turns an unhealthy shade of red, and Ja’far gets his confirmation.  “You did!  Not only that, you took it up the ass and  _ liked it. _ ”

Sinbad huffs, feeling a slight need to make a stand for his dignity.  “Well it was  _ your  _ birthday.  Besides, I  _ did  _ like it, as you decided to point out.  Nothing wrong with that,” he says a bit defensively.  

“No, there isn’t,” Ja’far agrees once he has finished laughing.  “I just never took you for the type to allow that.  You seemed too set in your hyper-masculine ways to ever let that happen.”  

“I grew out of that, mostly.  Really only in private, I guess, since I had a reputation to maintain in public,” Sinbad replies.  “And at the risk of embarrassing myself further, you’re the only one I ever let do that.”  

“Uh, thanks?  I guess?”  Ja’far responds, bemused.  “Other me probably would have felt somewhat special, if he knew.”

“I don’t know if he did,” Sinbad sighs.  “I really wish we’d talked more.  Just, neither of us were much good at feelings, so we avoided it as long as we could, with so many other things to worry about.”  

“We were… involved… for a long time, then?”  Ja’far asks.  

“Yeah,” Sinbad mumbles.  “Again, not like we talked about it, but I think we were more or less exclusive, the last five to seven years, before it all ended.”  

“Oh,” Ja’far says quietly, with a poignant pause. “You loved me.”

Sinbad freezes in place.  

Ja’far looks at him carefully.  “Maybe you never even said as much out loud, but you did.  I’m sure you’ve had long enough to think about it that you realize it now.”  He thinks for a moment.  “Well, that explains a lot, I guess.”   

“I… I did,” Sinbad admits.  “I didn’t want to tell you, because I can’t give you anything anymore, like I could have, once.  So I didn’t even want it to cross your mind, at risk of it happening again, at some point down the line.  I  _ especially _ don’t want you to feel like you owe me anything.  You’re very much the same, but also a very different person than you were before.  As am I, I suppose.”  

“It’s alright, Sin,” Ja’far answers after thinking about his response for a while.  “You can’t help the way your life turned out, or how you felt or still feel.  I gave up trying to wrap my head around you a while ago, once I realized you’re still my best friend no matter who or what you are.  And don’t worry about me thinking I owe you anything.  You know I’m about as interested in romance as I am in shoe polish, at the moment.”   

“That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a thousand years,” Sinbad jokes, trying to cover up the emotion in his voice.  Ja’far just snorts in response.  “Thanks, Ja’far.  You’re my best friend too; always were, even when I was at my worst.”  

“You never talk about that part,” Ja’far changes topic slightly.  “You rarely talk about the last five years of your life at all, except in vague reference to how bad they were.”  He looks at Sinbad out of the corner of his eye.  “I know you don’t want to tell me now, but don’t hesitate, when you’re ready.”  

“I’d rather not,” Sinbad retorts.  “I don’t want you to have to see that part of me again.”  

“Listen, Sin.”  Ja’far says a bit sharply.  “I know you think you’re like this because you’re doomed to eternal punishment for past deeds or something, but I think of it more as reward for being not as shitty as you could have been.  Or maybe it was just a fluke; with the whole world-rebooting, I’m sure not everything went according to plan.”  Ja’far looks at Sinbad to make sure he is paying attention.  “I don’t see any ghost Hitlers or Stalins or Alexander the Greats running around.  Nor does it sound like you see any other bad people from your world.  So obviously, you don’t exactly fall into the ‘bad’ category.”  Ja’far takes a decisive breath.  “Besides, I think I know you pretty well at this point.  So even if you were less of a decent person in your last years, you spent most of your life being a good one.”  

Sinbad smiles at Ja’far’s grumpy speech ruefully.  “Thank you,” he says sincerely.  “Glad you still have your talent for kicking me out of feeling sorry for myself.”  

“Someone has to do it, or I’d be stuck with awfully insufferable company,” Ja’far grouches.  

“Your temper has its good points, that way,” Sinbad chuckles.  “Even when I could kill you with a finger, you’d still tell me off if you got mad enough.  Everyone else was too afraid.”  

Ja’far tries not to look interested at this hint of the unspoken parts of Sinbad’s life, but fears he fails before Sinbad notices. 

“Um, I guess it started in Parthevia, but really started changing right before we left Sindria.  Maybe a year before that, I--”

“Stop, Sin,”  Ja’far interrupts.  “Tell me when you  _ want  _ to, which you don’t right now.  You don’t owe me anything,” he parrots Sinbad’s words right back to him.  

“Ja’far--”

“I’m serious.  You’re emotionally stunted enough as it is.  I don’t need you saying things you aren’t ready to say and then freaking out for weeks after.”  

“That’s mean!  I’m not stunted!”

“Yeah you are.  Like, really badly.”

“Am not,” Sinbad pouts.

“Are too.  The slightest conflict sends you off into either giant lectures or fits of self-deprecation.”

“....That’s just my personality.”

“Unfortunate.”

Sinbad makes a show of faking some tears.  “Ja’far is so cruel to me.  No respect for my tragic past and all its issues.”

Ja’far snorts.  “See?  You  _ do _ know you have issues.”  

“Fine,” Sinbad says with an exaggerated sigh, giving up on his dramatics.  “I really do want to tell you, though, one day.  I’m not trying to hide things from you because I want to lie.”

“I know, Sin.  I’d be a lot more pushy if I thought you were.”  

They both fall silent as Ja’far emerges from the trail and into his neighborhood, trailing his hand absently along the fences until he reaches his front door.  He tenses on reflex, and opens it as quietly as possible.  His parents are going to be gone until late in the evening, which means Pipirika is with them now, and they’re twice as likely to go storming onto him at her urging.  He steps quietly into the hall and through the living room.  Even still, he only makes it to the kitchen before he’s noticed. 

“Get him!” he hears Pipirika laugh, and he braces for the inevitable impact.

Ja’far doesn’t even try to stay up as children pile onto him, flopping dramatically onto his back before throwing a hand over his eyes.  “Alas, they’ve slain me!  Who is going to make dinner now?”  He lets out a quiet “oof” as a rather heavy child thumps onto his stomach.  

“You’re not dead, Ja’fa!  Stop lying,” one of the twins giggles.  

“I think you’d best learn to read that cookbook quick,” Pipirika adds.  “Ja’far is done for, and you don’t want me trying to cook for you.”  

There is a general screech of protest, and Ja’far huffs again as a knee digs into his diaphragm.  “Alright, I’m alive, I’m up.  Just stop bruising me.”  Ja’far heaves himself up onto his elbows and rolls to his feet, prying giggling siblings off of him as he goes.  

“I’m saved,” Pipirika teases, spinning slightly on the stool she’s seated at.  

“You mean you don’t enjoy caring for five screaming children?”

“I don’t scream!” Kikiriku nearly screams.  

“Of course not, but your siblings do.”

“The baby is loud,” he agrees.  

“All babies are loud.”  

“Were you loud, Ja’fa?”

“I wouldn’t know.  I don’t remember being a baby, do you?”  Ja’far extracts his youngest sibling from his pen, hoisting him into a high chair.  

“Ja’far wasn’t loud as a baby,” Pipirika whispers conspiratorially.  “He was always quiet and perfectly behaved, like some obedient freak of nature.”

Kikiriku stares wide-eyed, and Ja’far snorts as he begins shuffling ingredients out of the refrigerator.  Of course, Pipirika doesn’t know any better than him what sort of baby he was, but if it makes even one child slightly decrease their volume then he’s not going to argue.  

“You were a pretty quiet kid, all things considered,” Sinbad inserts, sitting on the counter.

Ja’far very carefully doesn’t startle, and plonks a bowl down right on top of where Sinbad’s legs appear to be.  The baby screeches a laugh with the loud clank, a toddler grabs onto his leg, and the twins mill about his waist asking if they can help.  

“How was school?”  Pipirika asks, digging under a cabinet for a large enough pot.  

“Boring.  How was  _ not  _ going to school?”

“What’s that tone for?  I’m just taking a year off.  It’s a good thing to do, you know.”  

“It’s for me being envious you don’t have to be in high school any longer.”

She snorts.  “Fair enough.  Your bitterness is justified.”  

Ja’far proceeds through dinner with only one minor burn -- on one of the twins trying to “help” -- and through bathtime and bedtime with only the usual slough of complaints.  Finally it’s done, Pipirika is out the door, and Ja’far flops onto his bed, exhausted and glad his parents are home from date night so he can finally have some peace.

“You really are going to need to have kids one day.”

Ja’far jumps, then puts a hand over his heart as it beats rapidly.  “God, you’re just loving startling me today, aren’t you?”  

“I’m not trying to.  I did leave you alone all evening.”

Ja’far sits up and shucks his shirt over his head, rubbing his face slightly before standing up to retrieve sleeping clothes.  “Sorry, didn’t mean to be harsh.  I’m just tired.  And sticky.”  He flips the light on in his bathroom.  “And still not even thinking about children.  I think I’ve raised enough of them for one lifetime, and I’m not even old enough to vote.”  

“They’d be so cute, though!  So round and freckley.”  

“Please shut up.  And leave me alone in the bathroom, at the very least!”  

“Fine, fine,” Sinbad relents.  Clearly Ja’far has had enough for the day.  “But so cute…”  He holds back a laugh at Ja’far’s annoyed growl from behind the door.  “Goodnight, Ja’far.”

“Goodnight,” is the muffled reply.  

Sinbad does wander off for a little while, but comes back to watch Ja’far covertly as he reads and falls asleep.  He’s just so….soft, when he sleeps properly, and it’s hard not to watch.  Sinbad has always enjoyed the rare moments he gets to see Ja’far relaxed and restful, especially as he sees him stressed more and more frequently.  

He jumps slightly when Ja’far’s door clicks quietly open, then backs away from the edge of the bed.  

Rurumu peers in to make sure Ja’far is asleep, then walks quietly over to him, smiling softly as she stands over the bed.  She brushes frizzy bangs out of his face, then pulls blankets over one of his feet that has poked out of the covers in his sleep, tucking them in neatly.  She gives a quick kiss to the side of his head, then leaves the room with another whispered click of the latch.  

As a matter of practice and for his own sanity, Sinbad tries not to compare his previous life with Ja’far with this one.   _ But this _ , he thinks confidently, watching Ja’far roll over with a sleepy noise,  _ this part, at least, I’ve done much better. _

* * *

 

Ja’far is seventeen, and trying to get into college to do something practical, like get a degree in business or become a CPA, and Sinbad takes it upon himself to stop that in its tracks.  

“Why would you pay that much money to do something boring you only vaguely care about?”  he interjects, looking over Ja’far’s application.  

“So that I can make a good living and eventually pay off my student loans, obviously,” Ja’far states blandly.  

“Do math,” Sinbad points at the box on his paper application.  

“Math is part of both business and accounting,” Ja’far argues.  

“Yeah, but you’re better than learning rote formulas and repeating them in exchange for income.  Do something exciting.”  

“There aren’t as many jobs in math, unless I want to go into tech or get a PhD,” Ja’far disagrees.  “Plus, I have only ever learned what people told me to, I’m not sure I’m the innovative type.”  

Sinbad waves his hands irritably.  “There are plenty of jobs in math.  Become something annoying like an actuary or a market analyst if you need to make ends meet.”  

“You have to be pretty exceptional to have a solid career in that,” Ja’far notes with a roll of his eyes.  

“In case you haven’t noticed, Ja’far, you  _ are _ exceptional.  And I’ve seen you solve so many of my screw ups in ways no one else could have imagined.  You’re plenty creative.”  

Ja’far snorts.  “I think that was born out of necessity, not creativity.  I’m not any more exceptional than the tens of thousands of other exceptional math students out there.”  

Sinbad looks at Ja’far seriously.  “Ja’far, you do math for fun on the weekends.  No one does that.  You never got to do something for yourself because you were always trailing around after me, before.  But you can, you have all the abilities.  Make something of yourself, send someone to space, prove that gravity stuff you’re always poking at.”  

“Gravitational waves,” Ja’far corrects.  

“Yeah, that,” Sinbad waves his hands dismissively.  “You’re obsessed with stuff like that, just imagine getting paid for it instead of doing it in your spare time late at night.”  

“Said as if it’s easy to get a research position.”

“Listen, I don’t know anything about this, but you’re trying to limit yourself too early.  Be like… seventy percent practical rather than one hundred percent, for once in your life.”

Ja’far scrunches his face as he frowns.  “Fine.  I guess I can always change my major before the first two years are up, if I need to.”  

“Stop being so...sensible.”

“Would you have survived, before, without my sensibility?”

“That isn’t the argument I’m trying to win right now.”

“You wouldn’t have.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Sinbad admits.

“Mm.”

* * *

 

It is a week before Ja’far’s high school graduation, and he has absolutely nothing to do.  He’s eaten dinner, helped get his siblings to bed, finished his book, and is now clicking aimlessly at his portable game.  

“I was twenty-six,” Sinbad interrupts the quiet.  

Ja’far looks up in surprise, having barely noticed he was there.  

“I suppose that technically everything changed when I was closer to twenty, but it really started being obvious when I was about twenty-six.”  He is sitting cross-legged on the floor, frowning at the corner of Ja’far’s bedroom.  

Ja’far just sits there stolidly, placing the glowing screen into his lap to make it clear he’s listening.  

“I was just trying to help,” Sinbad continues.  “I was nineteen, strong and naive, and thought I could somehow change my homeland.  And even when that blew up so spectacularly, I thought I could create a country; as if no one would try to stop me.  Naive and stupid, just like everyone always said I was.”  He breathes deeply and tries not to shudder.  “And before I knew it, there was blood and charred flesh, smoking ruins of a city and my friends, and nothing I could do about it.  It didn’t matter how strong I was; I couldn’t save everyone, and they still died.”  

Sinbad bites his own cheek and avoids Ja’far’s gaze.  “And you know what?  I know it was stupid, but I still don’t regret what I did next.  All those souls floating around, bitter and screaming and rebelling against everything that had killed them before their time, I took them all.  It should have driven me mad, or burned me from the inside out, and I suppose in some ways it did.”  He looks defiantly at Ja’far.  “But I don’t regret it.  They deserved so much more, and the least I could do was keep them from Al Thamen’s clutches.”  

He smiles at Ja’far, eyes closed and clearly faking it.  “You were  _ furious _ .  Going on and on about how it wasn’t anyone’s fault, I shouldn’t have to take that burden alone, look at how it was killing me…”  Sinbad laughs, though it is cracked and bitter.  “You were right, but I’d still do it again, because I felt so strongly that I had to.”  He breathes deeply, in and out.  “It...opened something.  Something I couldn’t close back up.  Eventually, the voice in my head started affecting me.  I thought it wasn’t, that what I was doing was only for the sake of the greater good, but I’d be lying if I said it changed nothing.  Ten thousand lies whispered into your mind makes one tiny deception seem like nothing, even two, ten, a hundred.  I was David’s project a decade in the making, and didn’t even realize it.”  

Ja’far closes his game and sits up, crawling off of his bed to lean his back against the frame, sitting quietly with Sinbad in the dark.  He kicks his feet out to either side of Sinbad’s folded knees, knowing he can’t touch him, but hoping the sentiment - that he would try to provide comfort if he could - comes across.  

Sinbad takes a moment to organize his thoughts better, and backtracks a bit.  The tale he tells, of a world even before Sinbad’s own, complex magical balances and dozens of sentient species, convoluted family relationships, world-controlling, body-jumping wizards that were thousands of years old, and bizarre transformations, is difficult for Ja’far to make sense of, as the night gets later and later.  To keep track of Sinbad’s own life, all the transgressions and mistakes he says he made in the last ten years, is easier to understand.  Ja’far tries his best to remember it all, and sits and processes for a moment after Sinbad finally finishes.  

Sinbad is sitting in silence, head slumped over and clearly drained.  

“Sin?”  Ja’far calls him out of his reverie, and he looks up hesitantly.  “Just because you could have done things differently doesn’t mean you were wrong,” Ja’far states.  “You couldn’t have made sense of a different world and thousands of years of strife any more than I can, now.  You did what you felt was right, and that’s all that matters.”  

Sinbad smiles, but looks like he wants to cry.  “But what I  _ felt  _ was right wasn’t  _ actually  _ right.”  

Ja’far shrugs.  “Perhaps it was, perhaps it wasn’t.  But you can’t know anything besides what you feel.  There were a lot more things than just you at play, and I think you did well.  You were good, at the heart of it.  Just a fishing-village kid trying to replicate his own success for others.  To berate yourself for not being able to stand up to forces infinitely older and more powerful than you is cruel.”  

Wide, golden eyes survey Ja’far, flicking up and down, back and forth.  “I’d… never thought of it like that.”  

Ja’far is tired, but smiles at him.  “Think of it as a twenty-two year old college graduate, trying to keep his editing job -- something he desperately needs for rent -- on those bad history textbooks you love so much, and trying to stand up to you screaming in his face with thousands of years of knowledge.  That was what you were like, but you had a lot more than your own rent riding on your shoulders.”  

“I…” Sinbad unfolds his legs and tips over onto his side, curling on the floor.  “You’ve always been able to get at the heart of things, even as a little kid.”  He reaches his hand out, and it only passes through Ja’far’s without a hint of sensation.  “It’ll take me a while to internalize it and actually feel better, but you’re right.  I’ve lived long enough to know that twenty or even a hundred years is nothing against what I faced, now that you’ve pointed it out and I can’t deny it any longer.”  

Ja’far shuffles over to Sinbad, and curls around his head awkwardly, trying to somehow hold him in his lap.  “I wish I could hold you and help, but at least you realize that much.”  He smiles tightly.  “And if I know that much now, I’m sure I did before, as well.  You said I was scared, and maybe I was, but I also understood,” Ja’far tries to comfort him.  “And thanks, for telling me.”  

“Can I tell you more, later?”

“Hm?”

“When I remember specific things that bother me, can I tell you?”  

“Of course.  You always could have, if you wanted.”

Sinbad shakes his head.  “I’ve done a lot of cruel things.  Some of them to  _ you _ .  I don’t want them to haunt you like they do me.”  

“I tell you all of my bad memories,” Ja’far offers.  “It only seems like a fair trade.”  

“You’re so young, still.”

“I’m legally an adult, I would have you know,” Ja’far huffs.

“Not old enough to buy a drink.”

“Old enough to shoot someone in the name of my country, though.”

“That’s a whole other set of principles I take issue with.”

Ja’far snorts.  “I know you do.”  He desperately wishes he could do something as mundane as pet Sinbad’s hair.  “You can tell me; if you want to share, then I want to know.”  

“...Alright, I guess.  Promise you’ll tell me if it ever bothers you, though.”

“I promise.”  

“Thanks, Ja’far.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also I DO actually have this fic finished. Like, the ending is written and proofed. And most of it in between. I just have a hard time filling in gaps, esp for this part bc I like...was actually only in high school for two years, so it's all sort of a blur. 
> 
> BUT IT SHALL BE DONE


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So about those last few magi chapters....wth the hecky

Ja’far lasts exactly twenty-nine days in a shared dorm room before deciding that getting his own space is a worthy allocation of funds.  He supposes his two roommates aren’t….evil, per se, but they are average specimens of humanity at best.  The mess, disgusting eating habits, non-existent studying, late nights, and drunken disasters are really only half the problem.  Ja’far can tolerate sub-optimal living conditions as well as sub-optimal company, as long as he has a little space every once in a while to collect himself.

Unfortunately, the only space Ja’far has been able to find since he moved to school was the middle of a weedy field nearly ten minutes walk from his residence hall.  It’s a bit dry and scrubby in the fast-approaching fall, but a cluster of scraggly eucalyptus trees makes the ground underneath them a bit softer.  He stomps across the moonlit field until he reaches the shade, then flops down with a dramatic sigh, ungainly in the dirt and grass.  He tries to breath deeply and regain some calm after a trying week, but it only serves to make him more agitated.  Instead, Ja’far flails all his limbs with a noise of frustration.

A slight cough that might be a laugh interrupts the silence, and Ja’far glares to his left, where the sound comes from.  “Something funny, you lurk?”

Sinbad melts out of the darkness and seats himself next to Ja’far.  “Don’t pretend you didn’t stomp all the way out here to talk to me.”  

Ja’far just tries not to stare at the way long grasses poke out of Sinbad’s incorporeal form when he sits on them.  It tends to make him sensitive, and that’s the last thing Ja’far wants to deal with right now.  “Maybe I wanted some alone time.”

“You can have alone time in the shower when you get back.”

“So clingy.”

“I’ll leave if you really want me to.”

Ja’far sighs.  “You know I don’t, or you wouldn’t be here in the first place.”  Ja’far looks him up and down thoughtfully one last time, then drops his head back into the dirt, not caring what sort of leaves and debris might stick to it.  “I have  _ got  _ to get out of there,” he declares to the sky.

“They’re not  _ that  _ bad,” Sinbad murmurs.  “You lived with all of us, once, and we were gross too.”

“I’m pretty sure you could boil water without burning a building down and wash your own shirts, at least.”

“I guess I could.”  

“One of them asked me how to turn on the washing machine.  He’s eighteen years old.  He almost put in five times more detergent than he needed.  And it’s been a  _ month  _ that we’ve lived here and he hasn’t washed his clothes.”  

“Ew.”

“Yeah, ew.”

“You sure this doesn’t have to do with me?”

“If has a little to do with you.  But mostly just me.  I just need personal  _ space _ .  I don’t care if I have to live in a closet, as long as no one else lives in the closet with me.”  

Sinbad grins.  “I thought you were pretty out of the clo--”

“Don’t even finish that sentence.”

Sinbad halts himself mid-joke and pouts.  “Don’t deny me when you set it up so perfectly.”  

“Sorry, I’m just too tired for your dad jokes.”

“They’re not dad jokes!  They’re very youthful jokes.”  

Ja’far laughs in spite of himself.  “Keep telling yourself that.”  He looks over to see Sinbad’s offended face and chuckles again.  “Speaking of youthful,  _ must  _ your v-neck be that low?”

Sinbad looks down at his own chest.  “Why shouldn’t it?”

“You look like a douchebag stereotype.”  Ja’far knows by now not to pick on Sinbad’s poor fashion sense, but just can’t help himself.  He’s been staring at Sinbad’s stupid, well-formed chest for a week and has been unable to say anything about it, not having had a moment to himself.

“I do not!”

“No, you definitely do.  Why the era change, anyway?  You seemed happy enough in your bizarre jacket contraptions before now.”  

Much to Ja’far’s surprise, Sinbad doesn’t take immediate offense to his previous ensemble being insulted.  Instead, he just looks a bit melancholy.  

“I was only teasing, Sin.  It looked fine on you, if a bit less fitting as you got out of your teens.”  Ja’far shifts onto his side to face him more comfortably.  “You don’t have to keep up whatever weird age ratio you’re going for, by the way.  It doesn’t bother me, at this point.  Do what you’re comfortable with.” 

Sinbad shakes his head.  “I like feeling like I age right.  At least in relation to all you guys.  I just...if I’m going to be in my early twenties, I’d have to put a crown on.  I...that’s not who I am, anymore.  There’s no reason to stick to how I used to look, since no one else does.”  He forces a smile.  “Since you’re not wearing a silly green hat, I don’t want to wear a silly feathery one.  There’d be no silly hat solidarity.”  

“Who made me wear a silly green hat?”

“ _ You _ made you wear a silly green hat.  Sunscreen didn’t exist.”

“Guess that makes sense.”  

Sinbad sees for a second, Ja’far’s face with a few more scars and a lot more tension and nerves held in it, skin reflecting even lighter than usual in brand new, white, marble halls.  He’s practically swallowed in crisp robes, only distinguishable as himself by a few tufts of pale hair sticking out under a field of green fabric as he stares out over the palace walls.  Sinbad remembers reaching out, feeling Ja’far jump at the unexpected touch, and yanking the keffiyeh off his head.  

It had looked funny on him, ever-simple Ja’far wearing any sort of decoration or sign of office, but Sinbad had seen the opportunity it presented and seized it.  Ja’far hated frivolity and was bad at receiving gifts, especially gifts he thought might betray Sinbad’s reputation.  But a new palace and change in office meant all sorts of other changes could go unnoticed, and so Sinbad had dropped his gift on Ja’far’s sweaty head and shoved his scarf back over it before it could be refused.  

Ja’far had immediately pushed him off with very vocal protests about propriety and decorum, no matter that no one was there to see them act just as childish friends rather than new king and subordinate, and quickly set about rearranging his askew keffiyeh.  Only lightning reflexes meant he reached out to catch the object that fell with his sudden movement, followed by Ja’far holding it up in front of his face to examine.  He’d glared at Sinbad then, the same expression he’d had as a child and would have for many years more, a frown that couldn’t decide between reprehension and resignation, but was unique to every act of Sinbad’s that Ja’far found foolish.  Ja’far had spread his stance slightly -- something he often did to make himself seem more intimidating -- and shoved his hand into Sinbad’s face, offending object dangling from it in clear accusation.  

_ No takebacks,  _ Sinbad remembered saying, hands tucked tightly behind his own back lest Ja’far grab one and force him to do just that.  

After a few more angry insults, Ja’far had dropped his stance and his hand, bringing his unwanted gift up into the sunlight to look at once more, face carefully blank.  It was small and inoffensive (Sinbad had known anything more ostentatious would be tossed away outright) but as clear, pristine, and as solid a gem as Sinbad could find, small but damn near indestructible.  And red, because Ja’far did not get to look as bland as he tried to -- not under Sinbad’s watch -- and for the blood on his hands he refused to forget, and the blood in his veins he was forever trying to bleed for anyone he cared about.  

Sinbad nearly winces at his own melodramatic romanticism.

Ja’far had glowered at him instead, clearly recognizing at least some of his intent -- and certainly the rather costly price -- and stomped past Sinbad with more colorful curses and a muttered,  _ what a stupid thing to spend a fortune on _ .  

But the gem had been on his head the next day anyway, and nearly every day Sinbad saw him ever since.  

“What are you thinking so hard about?”

Sinbad startles out of his reverie, swiftly jerking his head in Ja’far’s direction.  “...you,” he admits after a moment, a bit too vulnerable to lie just now.  

Ja’far scrunches his nose, that same reprehensive frown on his face, all these lifetimes later.  “Why?”

“Just thinking that there’s something I wish I could give you.  But I have neither the money or the means.”

“Ah.”  Ja’far quickly glances away.  “You were thinking about me from before.”  

“No, I was thinking about you right now, and what I wish I could give you that I gave you before.”

“I wouldn’t want it anyway.  I can’t be who you remember; it hurts when you want to make me into him.”

Sinbad winces at the tightly concealed pain he can hear in Ja’far’s voice, the very same reason he hesitates to tell stories about their previous friendship.  They’d been so young, when Sinbad looks back on it.  Back then, he’d only looked at him and thought  _ Ja’far _ , just like he did every single day, never considering how young, how vulnerable Ja’far had been.  Everything had been changing too fast to ever recognize their success as the desperation of broken children.  Only now can he see just how naive it had been, no matter how toughened by their harsh upbringings, to take on what they had.  Ja’far, especially, had always looked too capable to fail, even before he was tall enough to see above a ship’s railing.  And now again, despite all his years, Sinbad had fallen into the same trap, not realizing Ja’far was much more vulnerable than he usually acted.  It’s only because of his current exhaustion that it’s coming out.

“I don’t want to make you into anyone.”  

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“This is why I worry abou telling you things,” Sinbad mutters, before raising his voice into greater clarity.  “I don’t want you to think I care any less; I wouldn’t change a damn thing about you even if I could.”

Only silence meets his declaration.

“I’m only saying I wish I could show you how much I care with something beside words.  I’ve never been good with words.” 

Ja’far gives him a very skeptical glower.

“I mean at the words that really matter, not the vapid, pretty ones I use to get what I want.”  

“Whatever.”

Sinbad senses the tension left unresolved, but Ja’far clearly wants the conversation to drop, so he lets it, but not without one last attempt to assert himself.  “So moody.”

“You would be too if your only company was a man who dressed like he came straight out of the Jersey shore.”

“Aw come on, that’s low.  What have I ever done to you?”

“Besides interrupting my few moments of peace and quiet?  I don’t know, give me a few years to write a book and I’ll get back to you on that answer.”

“Ouch.”  

Despite not facing him, Ja’far can tell he has gone a bit too far simply based on how quiet Sinbad’s usually playful response is.  He forms his expression into one of contrition, then twists his head sideways to address the issue.  “Just change your shirt before something slips and you poke an eye out.”  

Sinbad rubs self-consciously at his chest and then frowns, the neck of his shirt morphing up and around his collar bones.  

“Longer sleeves,” Ja’far adds.  

“Why don’t I just put on a wimple and live in a convent while I’m at it,” Sinbad dissents, but extends sleeves down to his wrists.  

Ja’far snorts.  “Sometimes less is more.  Now scrunch them up.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Shush, I’m doing you a favor.”  He squints at Sinbad’s ensemble, which already looks much better with just forearms bared instead of half his torso.  “Give it some buttons or something, the neck doesn’t suit you.”

Buttons immediately pop into place, leaving the once modest shirt half-open once again.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Sinbad snickers, but quickly alters it once more, leaving only a few buttons near the collar.

“Something sturdier than flimsy….whatever that is.”  

“Since when have you been the fashion police?”

“You’d rip that fabric in a heartbeat, if it was real.”

“Fine, fine.”  Sinbad concentrates for a while, not really having a great grasp on fabrics that weren’t the crafted silks and leathers he’d once worn.  He finally settles on the waffley fabric he sees Ja’far wear to bed, since presumably it’s warm and comfy, then looks up for approval.  “Happy now?”

“With your shirt?  Yes, much improved.  With everything else?  No.”  

Sinbad absently picks open two of the three buttons near his neck.  “I guess it is a bit….classier.”  He’s perplexed that Ja’far somehow picked up a better sense of fashion than he did, at some point in his life, but decides it doesn’t really matter.  “I mean, there’s nothing you can really do but wait it out, at least until you start hearing back from places you’ve applied to.”  

 Ja’far heaves a sigh and flops his head back.  “That’ll help; assuming anyone actually replies at all.”

“Someone will.”

“I think you overestimate the appeal of an immature student.”

“You’re not immature.”

“Yeah, but they don’t know that.  And even if I get a few replies, it’ll take months to figure it all out and settle in somewhere.  I’m stuck until then.”

“You know, you can vent if you want, Ja’far.”

Ja’far immediately glances at him guiltily, then quickly back away, a bit ashamed of being caught so easily.  “They’re just normal problems, I don’t know why they bother me so much.”

“Probably the same reason they bother everyone else; because they’re annoying.  Not everything that bothers you has to be a matter of life and death.”  

“I guess.”  Ja’far still can’t quite accept that reasoning, but decides he might as well give it a go.  “It’s just...I’ve got so many units, and have sent so many job applications, don’t know anyone here besides Pipi, can’t find anywhere to live, and I just can’t be who everyone needs me to be.  I can’t be this many things at once!”  He finds himself rather agitated by the end.  

“You know Drakon.”

“He’s graduating next year and practically married.  Not exactly a peer I can confide in.”

“Yamuraiha will be here next year.  She said she applied for microbiology.”

“Yeah, next  _ year _ .”  

“ _ I’m _ here?” Sinbad suggests, knowing it might be more of a problem than a solution.  “I can’t really do anything, but I can try.”  

“You’re only here because of who I used to be.  I can’t be that person either!”  

Apparently that issue hadn’t been dropped, then.  “And I told you you’re wrong, if you think that.”

“You wouldn’t go back to that world, if you could?”  

The question catches Sinbad off guard, and he knows Ja’far sees it, so considers carefully before answering.  Sinbad is not so stupid that he doesn’t see that this is what is really bothering Ja’far, more than just the usual logistics of finding a home and employment.  The most obvious answer to his question is that he can’t go back, so it doesn’t matter anyway, but that will only be taken as admission that he would if he could, and that isn’t what he feels.  

“You don’t know how many times I’ve thought about that, Ja’far.  It’s not an easy answer.”  

“But you would.”

“No,” Sinbad says firmly.  “No I wouldn’t, and for reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with you at all.”  

There’s a long silence.

“Are you going to give me those reasons?”

“I’d rather not.”

More silence passes, filled only with angry tension and the sound of Ja’far pulling up grass.

“You’re going to give me the silent treatment until I do, aren’t you?”

The earthy crunching of ripping roots fills the air in reply.

“You know, everyone thinks you’re so nice and so accommodating, but you’ve always been able to hold one hell of a grudge when you want to.”  

Ja’far turns dramatically away from Sinbad to pick at dry leaves, and Sinbad can’t help but snort, half amusement and half exasperation.  

“Fine, fine.  Dramatics don’t suit you, so quit it.”  Sinbad leans forward, elbows on folded knees.  “Would you ever want to be President of the United States, Ja’far?”

He gets a quizzical glance cast in his direction, but no answer.

Sinbad rolls his eyes.  “I said I’d tell you, but I’m going to need a bit of participation.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

Sinbad nods, expecting the answer.  “Why not?  You’re smart, capable; you could do a lot of good.”  

“Because nothing ever works out how you promise, everyone hates you, and you age twenty years in eight,” he answers with the cynical ease of one who has had to write too many school papers about being president.

“Would you like to rule the world?”

Ja’far pinches his face in annoyance.  “No one can rule the world.”

“What about the universe?”

“Well if you can’t rule the world, you obviously can’t rule the universe.”  The “idiot” goes unspoken.

“But what if you could?”  

“You can’t.”

“Suspend your disbelief, Nietzsche, would you?”

“Then I wouldn’t want to do that, either,” Ja’far answers in a clearly patronizing tone.  

“Why not?  Pretend I’m stupid and explain it to me.”

“I don’t need to  _ pretend _ that.  I wouldn’t want to rule the universe because I just told you a country sounds horrible to rule, let alone anything bigger.”  

Sinbad stares intently, making sure he has more than Ja’far’s skeptical half-attention.  “What if you didn’t have a choice?”  

“Everyone has a choice; no one gets elected President by force.”

“George Washington might beg to differ, but that’s besides the point,” Sinbad mutters, before looking up at Ja’far again.  “Some people have a choice, and some people don’t.  I chose to rule and you sort of had duties thrust upon you, but in the end it doesn’t matter, because the responsibilities end up where they do anyway, a lot of them on accident.  Sometimes spouses die and someone ends up with a lot more responsibility than they planned for.  You can rationalize that, right?”  

Ja’far frowns for a moment, then nods.  

“Now imagine it isn’t a child or a country, but the entire universe.”

“That’s more than a  _ bit  _ of a logical leap,” Ja’far protests.

“Doesn’t matter, that’s what imagination is for.  So just imagine it for thirty seconds, alright?”  Sinbad tries to hide his exasperation at Ja’far’s attempts to derail answers he’d asked for himself.  This rational questioning is one of his most valuable qualities, it just sometimes requires patience.  “You imagining it?”

Ja’far sniffs to express his disbelief, but nods once more.  

“How do you think that would feel, to take care of the universe?”

“I couldn’t.”

“It doesn’t matter what you can or can’t do; someone has to do it, and the only person there is you.”  

Ja’far thinks for a moment.  “I suppose I’d probably kill myself.”

Sinbad mimes blowing his bangs out of his face, an old habit that no longer has much of an effect.  Ja’far had always been a bit too fond of that particular solution.  “So you’re saying you’d lose your mind, after a fashion.”

“I’d kill myself  _ before _ I lost my mind; that’s rather the point.”  

“If you die, the universe collapses.  Would you still kill yourself?”

Ja’far plants his hands on the ground and sits up.  “Sin, you aren’t making any sense, and this isn’t answering my question!”  

“Would you, or wouldn’t you try to save it?” Sinbad demands.

“I’d do more harm than good, so no, I wouldn’t.”

Sinbad barely resists the urge to flop back onto the ground.  “What a pessimistic age you live in!  People weren’t always so cynical and rational as you.  They tried to save the universe, and they tried very, very hard.  Sometimes even succeeded, for brief moments.”  

“Sin, you know that no one can  _ actually _ control the universe, right?”  Ja’far had never taken him for the religious type, and it’s obvious no human can do such a thing.

“Exactly!”  He points at Ja’far with a near-manic grin.

The force of Sinbad’s exclamation startles Ja’far and he jumps.

“And that’s why I wouldn’t want to go back to any other world but this one,” he declares.  “Because no one can control the universe, here.”  

Sinbad looks awfully satisfied with himself, but Ja’far can only stare at him in deadpan silence.  The chirping of crickets in the night air would actually be comedic if the whole situation weren’t so ludicrous.  

“I think you’ve finally gone and lost it, Sin.  That, or I really have been imagining this the entire time and  _ I’m  _ the one who’s lost it.”  

“Why are you so unwilling to believe in a world with different rules than your own?  It is rules that make it impossible to control the universe, you know.  Nothing more, nothing less.”  

“A bit more than arbitrary rules, I should think.”

“Natural laws, physical laws, biological, energetic, psychological limitations.  They’re just  _ rules _ , Ja’far.  Why will you believe me when I tell you about a universal force of energy -- magic, if you will -- and yet you won’t believe it could be harnessed to rule the world, in a dimension not your own and with different rules?”  

“Well with no rules, anyone could try to do it.  Even you, without your body, could do it.” Ja’far answers, clearly exasperated.

“That’s _ exactly _ what I did!  Altruistic, egomaniac that I was.  Should have paid attention when I saw the guy who tried before me, and the guy who tried before him; the one who tried before that was even worse, because he was like me and he  _ wanted  _ it.  And then I got stopped before I had the chance, fortunately.  It’s good that no one can rule this world.”  

“....I should go talk to a psychiatrist.”

“Believe me or don’t, I’m just telling you why I wouldn’t want to go back to the world this one was born from.  You were the one that asked.”

“I asked if you would want the old me instead of this one.”

“That’s definitely  _ not _ what you asked,” Sinbad complains.  “You asked if I wanted to go back to my old world.”

“You’re not so stupid that you didn’t know what I meant.”

“And you’re not so stupid that you wouldn’t consider I have reasons that don’t revolve around you.  You’re one person that makes this world better for  _ me _ , but you’re not that important in the scheme of things.  Or lack of scheme, really; that’s why I like this world.”  

“I came out here to get some peace and quiet, not listen to a raving lunatic.”

“You’re the one who started it!” Sinbad protests.

Ja’far rolls into a ball and onto his side, away from Sinbad’s intense gaze.  

Sinbad just stares at his back and the leaves sticking to his jacket where he’d been lying on the ground, out of any sort of words to say.  

“Did you really try to do that?” Ja’far asks quietly, after a while.

“In an idiotic impulse that lasted for about five years of my life, yes I did.”

Ja’far huffs at the paradoxical description.  “And no one tried to stop you?”

“Oh you tried,” Sinbad answers, reading between the lines easily.  “I was just very careful not to listen.”  

“That’s rather irresponsible.”

“Irresponsibility is my greatest skill.  Along with not listening and not paying attention.”

Ja’far smiles in spite of himself, recognizing self-deprecating humor from Sinbad when he hears it.  There’s always a ring of truth to such veiled admissions, and he appreciates the self-awareness.  For the moment he’s content to sit quietly after statements he’s at least more familiar with than universe-ruling, otherworldly philosophies.

“I wouldn’t trade you, Ja’far.  I’ve shared things with you that weren’t permissible to share before, things I didn’t have the time or the ability to share in a world where everyone was just the pawn of some greater being.  Just because there are moments I wish I could give you doesn’t mean I’d change what really exists right now.”  

“Really?”

“To what part?”  

“You’ve told me things that you didn’t before?”  Ja’far knows it’s childish, trying to one-up a sort of previous self, but he can’t help it.  

“Definitely.  I was just thinking earlier -- and I mean, I can’t speak for you, only for myself -- but I didn’t even have time to process enough to say anything, before.  I didn’t have time to feel, there was always too much else needing attention.  So things like that?  We only ever talked about feelings in very, very dire moments when it couldn’t be avoided.  We didn’t have time for feelings, it was too much of a desperate scramble for survival and ideals we didn’t understand.”  

“I’m not sure that’s how feelings work.”  In Ja’far’s experience, they usually come oozing out the sides eventually.

“You remember enough from when you were little to know that you can shove things down for an awfully long time when you need do.”

“I guess.”

“I mean not forever, obviously.  Eventually it catches up to you.”

“And you start trying to rule the world as a result?” Ja’far can’t help but comment snidely.

“Something like that.  Not something I’d recommend, really.”

“Don’t worry, wasn’t planning on trying.”  Ja’far pauses to take a deep breath in and out.  “You know, this wasn’t exactly the de-stressing session I had in mind when I came out here.”

“Sorry.” 

“It’s alright.  I like when you tell me things, even if they’re poorly timed.”  

“It wasn’t something I was planning on telling you,” Sinbad admits.

“Ever?”

“Maybe.  It’s… not something that’s easy to explain.”

“Or easy to understand,” Ja’far grumbles.  “I still don’t really get it, even if you appear genuine enough that I half-believe it.” 

Sinbad shrugs.  “I just try to pretend it didn’t happen.”

“I mean, from what I understand, it’s not  _ as _ ludicrous as it sounds out of context.  I suppose I’d be mad if I found out someone had been playing with me my whole life too.”

“I guess.  But then I just turned around and decided the solution was for me to do the exact same thing.”  Sinbad puts his forehead into his hands and shakes his head.  “I still don’t really know what I was thinking.”  

“Not much, by the sound of it.”

“Ugh.”

“I think anyone would crack eventually, under that sort of pressure, Sin.” 

Sinbad picks up his head and shrugs.  “Wish I’d just done it in a less destructive fashion.  Then maybe I wouldn’t have ended up like this.”  

“Is this whole...thing...why you don’t have a body?”  

“Wouldn’t make a very good god if I could bleed, now would I?”

“I suppose.”  Ja’far frowns in thought, for a moment.  “How  _ did  _ you do this?”

Sinbad’s face tightens and his previously vulnerable gaze immediately shutters.  “...Another time, perhaps.”

Ja’far nods, hesitant and surprised at the sudden change.  “Alright.”

Sinbad shakes his head, hair fluttering in a way that doesn’t quite obey gravity, as he tries to rid himself of his sudden mood swing.  “Sorry.  I made this about me when you just wanted to vent.”

“It’s alright.  I mean, my problems certainly don’t seem that big anymore.”  

“I think that’s more depressing than comforting.”  

“I’m honestly just happy to have a real conversation that isn’t about how to microwave ramen or ply girls with alcohol.”

“You do realize if anyone else saw this it would look less like a conversation and more like you talking to yourself?”

Ja’far huffs.  “You know what I mean, Sin.  I’m just glad to have like...an actual human connection.”

“Aw Ja’far, I’m so touched you think of me that way.”  Sinbad places a hand dramatically over his heart and feigns swooning.

Ja’far immediately turns away from Sinbad’s antics to hide his flushed face.  “Quiet, I’m going to sleep.”

“Don’t sleep in the dirt!”

“It’s cleaner than my room.  Plus god knows what time my roommates will come back and what state they’ll be in.”

Sinbad opens his mouth to argue, but fails.  “Fair point.” 

“Wake me up when they’re back and passed out.”  Ja’far shuts his eyes, determined not to think about any problems or world domination until morning.  

“...you’re seriously going to sleep on the ground?”

“Yes.”

“Ja’far--”

He picks up a rock and lobs it in Sinbad’s direction.  “I don’t want to hear how low I have sunk.  I’m tired and the dirt is comforting.”  

“...I guess I’ve seen you sleep in weirder places.”  

“I don’t want to know, I just want to be unconscious.”

“If you insist.”  

* * *

 

Ja’far does eventually find a place to live midway through the semester, in the guest house of an elderly couple who are happy to give him discounted rent in return for occasional heavy-lifting and gardening projects they can’t do themselves.  It’s a bit rundown, but the utilities all work, there aren’t any rats, and everything is clean, if well-used.  

And most importantly, no one else lives there, leaving Ja’far to his studies and his privacy.

Ja’far had never had to study much in high school, other than the occasional few hours spent reviewing before a final exam, but that pattern does not hold in college.  Now, Ja’far has taken to rituals Sinbad knows all too well, living off of caffeine and trying to pull inhuman hours, no matter that he doesn’t have to.  It is one thing to pull an all-nighter because there is a desperate time crunch, but another for some stupid test that doesn’t even matter.  

This evening falls in the latter category.  Ja’far has an exam tomorrow, one he is already perfectly prepared for, and he is  _ still _ awake at one in the morning, pushing himself to review material he already knows or doesn’t even need to remember for his test.  Unfortunately, Sinbad is no longer capable of physically wrestling him out of his desk and into his bed, but he has another strategy.  As good as Ja’far is at ignoring him, Sinbad is still better at being obnoxious.  

“Go to bed, Ja’far,” Sinbad scolds.  

Ja’far doesn’t deign to respond.  

“Come on, the bed is so comfy, it’s right there.” 

“Bed.”

“Sleep.”

“Nowwwww,” Sinbad drawls while spinning distractingly about the room.  

After about twenty minutes of this, Ja’far still hasn’t given up. 

“Go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep little baby,” Sinbad singsongs.  

The tip of Ja’far’s mechanical pencil breaks as he grips it too hard and pushes angrily against his paper.  

“Did you know that a night without sleep is the equivalent of operating with a .10 blood alcohol content?  Would you go to an exam drunk, Ja’far?  Would you?”  

Ja’far just grits his teeth and ignores him.  

Sinbad stops spinning and sits on the floor next to his desk in silence.  Eventually, he starts quietly on a song in a language Ja’far doesn’t recognize, one he isn’t sure even exists anymore.  Sinbad isn’t a terribly good singer, but it is low in pitch and consistent enough that it is sonorous and soothing anyway, and Ja’far’s eyes start to droop.

He jerks his head up and shakes it, and returns to scribbling away  

Sinbad growls and gives up being polite, finally just sitting down on top of Ja’far’s papers, completely obscuring them, and glaring at him.  

“I’m serious.  Go the fuck to sleep.  Someone wrote a book about this; I’ll find it for you.”  

Ja’far screeches and throws his pencil at Sinbad’s head in annoyance, though it only passes through and bounces off the wall uselessly.  He stands angrily from his chair, strips off his shirt, and rolls into a burrito of blankets on his bed, face to the wall and back facing Sinbad.  

“Yay,” Sinbad says with a clear note of sarcasm in his voice.  

“I hate you,” Ja’far mutters.

“Sure.  And before you freak out and extract yourself to double-check, your alarm is definitely set for eight-thirty, I watched you do it two hours ago.”  

Ja’far just sighs into his blankets.

“You’ll do fine.  You’ll actually do better with sleep than trying to overstudy something you already know.  Just relax and try to rest.”  

Ja’far kicks angrily at his blankets, but doesn’t fight him on it, and Sinbad pulls his knees up to his chest to sit next to Ja’far’s pillow on the bed, resting against the wall.  He starts singing again, rough and low, with none of the choppy pauses of the European languages that Ja’far is familiar with, and the occasional cusping at the back of this throat.  Sinbad is clearly substituting low notes for high ones he cannot reach, but it is all sung with such a familiarity and fluidity that Ja’far finds it calming.  

Sinbad is usually most willing to speak at night and when Ja’far is vulnerable, so Ja’far gives up on his annoyance and catches his shutting eyes for one moment before he finally goes to sleep.  “Where is that from?”  

“Doesn’t matter,” Sinbad answers.  “Go to sleep.”  

Ja’far is upset that his question stopped Sinbad’s voice.  “It does,” he insists.  “No one’s ever sung me to sleep.  I like it.”  

“My mother, if you must know,” Sinbad answers quietly.  “Every night after my dad was gone, when I was little.  It’s one of the few things I clearly remember.”  

“A lullaby,” Ja’far says quietly.  “Will you keep going until I fall asleep?”  

Sinbad coughs nervously, but does ultimately go back to his low singing, and Ja’far smiles.  He snuggles into a ball and quickly falls asleep.  

* * *

 

Though Ja’far relishes in his quiet and privacy, it’s quickly turning him into the workaholic recluse Sinbad had become all too familiar with in Ja’far’s later teens and twenties.  It had been relatively simple, before, to tease and cajole him out into public every once in a while; if all else failed, Sinbad would just threaten unsupervised revelry, and Ja’far would come grumpily marching outside after him.  

Now Sinbad has nothing but his powers of annoyance, since even the most genuine care and reasoning will no longer tear Ja’far from taking up extra shifts at his campus tutoring job.  He used to leave Ja’far alone for such tasks, knowing they were important to him, but after two months of watching Ja’far barely speak a word more than necessary to anyone, he decides even work can no longer be sacred, and starts bothering him there, as well. 

Every time Ja’far receives a social invitation and he politely turns it down, Sinbad makes sure to go into a new fit of theatrics, only stopping when he knows Ja’far truly is about to snap.  He doesn’t enjoy being this irritating, but it’s the only power he has left.  So it is with relief that finally, with a very pointed glance in Sinbad’s direction, Ja’far agrees to a house party invitation from one of his lab partners, with the caveat that he can bring a friend, because he sure as hell isn’t going alone.  

“Are you actually going to go?” Sinbad asks as he walks home.

“Yes, or you’ll be infringing not just upon my studies and work, but my sleep before I know it.”  

“It’s for your own good,” Sinbad snipes.  

“Because you always know what’s best for me,” Ja’far returns, just as bitter.

“I think  _ anyone  _ would be concerned that you hole yourself up and don’t speak to anyone for weeks at a time.”

“I speak to plenty of people.”

“In exactly as many words as necessary, and without any attempts to make connections or friendships at all.  It’s not healthy and you know it.”

“And going to a party is going to form  _ such  _ meaningful friendships.”

“If it’ll get you to loosen up and leave your hovel, I consider it better than nothing,” Sinbad huffs.  “Do you even have any friends to bring?”

“Just because I don’t spend all weekend partying doesn’t mean i don’t have friends!”

“Oh yeah?  So who are you going to bring?”

Ja’far turns away from him, knowing he’ll be teased before he even speaks.  “Pipi will come with me if I ask.”

“That’s family, not friends, Ja’far.”

“She can be both!”  He gives up on being angry and lets his shoulders drop slightly, knowing Sinbad is right but not willing to say it in so many words.  “You know crazy social things make me uncomfortable; don’t tease me for wanting someone to follow around so I don’t have to do the talking.”

“You’re not going to make any friends if you let other people do the talking.”

“Can you give it a rest?  I already agreed to go to something I very much don’t want to attend, just for you.”

“Baby steps, I guess.”

Ja’far just scrunches his nose in distaste and doesn’t reply.

“Call Pipirika now and ask her,” Sinbad demands after a few moments of silence.

“Why?  She’ll just laugh at me for planning too many days in advance for such a casual event.”

“Because otherwise you’ll ‘forget’ and use it as an excuse not to go,” Sinbad accuses.  “I know how you operate.”

The thought  _ had  _ crossed Ja’far’s mind, so he doesn’t disagree.  “Fine,” he mutters instead, pulling out his phone and dialing.  He almost thinks it won’t be answered and he may get out of the situation after all, at least for the moment, but she picks up on the last ring.  Bracing himself, Ja’far explains the situation and tries not to sound like he’s begging when he asks for company.  He gets the expected teasing, but also the expected acceptance of his invitation, and Ja’far is at least relieved that if he must do this, he won’t have to go alone.  He expects a quick goodbye and an end to the conversation until further notice, but instead there’s only an awkward silence.

“Can I bring my new boy….thing?” she asks after a while, voice a bit tinny on the phone.

“..thing?” Ja’far repeats skeptically.

“Yeah.  Thing.”

“It seemed like a more the merrier sort of thing, so I don’t see why not, as long as he’s not some unmanageable mess.”

“Oh he’s whipped into perfect obedience, trust me.”

Ja’far snorts a laugh.  “I do not doubt your abilities, from what I’ve seen.”  

“I don’t know whether that’s a compliment or an insult, coming from you.”  

“Both.  I’ll see you Friday?”

“Yep; see you.”

After a few more requisite goodbyes, the line clicks closed, and Ja’far pockets his phone again before looking up at Sinbad.  “Happy now?”  

Sinbad nods.  “Now I know someone besides me will hold you to it.”  

“The things I’ll go through just to make you keep quiet.”

“I’ll take what I can get.  Not everything that’s good for you is fun.”

“You’re admitting you think I won’t have fun ,and making me go anyway?”

“You  _ could  _ have fun, if you weren’t so dead and determined to dislike ninety percent of people you meet.”

“I don’t dislike them, I just don’t have the energy for them.”

“It comes across the same, I think.”

Ja’far hesitates for a moment.  “Do I really come across...mean, or something?”

Sinbad tilts his head in consideration.  “I don’t think  _ mean  _ is the word.  More just….unsociable.”

“Oh.  I guess that’s alright, then.”

Sinbad lets out a sharp bark of laughter.  “Unsociable isn’t exactly a compliment.”

“It’s better than mean.”

“You should be grateful I’m making you get out, if that’s your attitude to social life.”

“I’ll be sure to thank you when I’m stuck in a loud house dodging drunks and vomit, just trying to find my friends and get them home.”  

“Oh, it’s not  _ that  _ bad,” Sinbad protests.

“That’s because you’ve never seen  _ me  _ at a party.  The weird ones always manage to find me and make me clean up their messes.”

“Don’t be so pessimistic.”

“We’ll see, I guess.”  

* * *

 

Ja’far won’t admit it, but he is a bit intrigued to meet Pipirika’s newest fling.  The ones he meets are usually on accident or by coincidence; she’s never asked to bring one along before.  When Ja’far’s taxi drives up and he catches sight of Pipirika waving, he realizes that her willingness to introduce him proves not to be the only unusual thing about this one, as unlike many he has seen Pipirika trail around, he is actually smaller than her.  Which isn’t really an impressive feat, given her height, but an unusual choice for her nonetheless.  He looks only slightly more excited to be there than Ja’far, which is to say, not very.  Though rather than the sort of annoyed tolerance Ja’far would expect of being dragged somewhere he doesn’t want to be, he’s sort of just....jumpy.  

Flustered, maybe, is a better word.  

“Look who showed up,” Pipirika exclaims, catching sight of him clambering out of the car.  “I thought you might have bailed after all.”  

Ja’far doesn’t bother to greet her, sticking out his tongue instead.  He turns to her date with a benign smile that usually goes over well and sticks out his hand.  “Ja’far,” he introduces. 

Sinbad, lagging behind him by several seconds in favor of staring at the ride-sharing app the taxi driver had been using, pops out of the windshield just as Ja’far is trying to be polite.  He lets out a sort of strange, suffocated noise, and Ja’far barely resists the urge to turn and look at him, as he knows it would be weird to look the opposite direction while being introduced.  

His handshake is returned with a surprisingly steady grip, given the other man’s flighty appearance. “Mystras.”

“Ah,” Ja’far replies, then quickly recovers before that response looks too strange.  “Nice to meet you.”  That, at least, explains Sinbad’s reaction.

“Likewise.”

That’s really all the chance they get to get know each other before they’re dragged into the house.  

It is, as Ja’far predicted, loud, dark, crowded, and slightly run down; though the latter is not really the fault of the students who live there.  Someone hands him a cup that could have god-knows-what actually in it, and the whole place smells of sickly-sweet vapor and marijuana.  

“Lovely,” Ja’far mutters, and debates whether the numbness of downing his drink could be worth whatever concoction of cheap liquor and other unsavory substances might be in it.

“Live a little, Ja’far!” Pipirika shouts over the music, ruffling Ja’far’s hair despite his protests.  “You’re the one who told us to come.”

“Against my will.”

“What was that?”  It’s hard to hear anything other than near-shouting.

Ja’far shakes his head.  “Nothing important.”  

Pipirika gets snagged by someone she is apparently acquainted with, and Mystras trails behind her.  Ja’far has a hard time understanding whether his actions are out of politeness or insecurity, and studies him curiously out of the corner of his eye as he pretends to look elsewhere.  All too conscious of Sinbad hovering in and out of his line of sight, he edges his way into the conversation circle to engage Mystras, who is listening rather than participating.  

“What’re you studying, then?” Ja’far asks in an attempt at polite conversation.

“Well…” he rubs nervously at the back of his head.  “Religious studies, if anyone important asks.  But really I’m doing ancient history.”  

“Uh, okay.”  Ja’far senses that an explanation is imminent.

“I’ve got a very religious family.  It’s the only way I was allowed to study at all,” Mystras explains further.

“Ah, I got it.”

“Yeah, I’m just hoping I can graduate at the end of the year before anyone finds out.”

Ja’far nods.  “I wish you luck with that.  Especially when they do eventually find out.”

“Oh god, don’t remind me.”  Mystras barely represses a shiver.  “So what are you studying?”

“Math.”

“Yikes.  You’re a stronger man than I.”

Ja’far snorts.  “I’ve just always been good at math; it’s not that impressive.”  

Any further conversation is interrupted by a loud crumpling of a plastic cup, and Ja’far takes his cue to down his drink before it’s taken from him.  Mystras is not so quick to catch on, or perhaps just not as practiced, and can do little but blink as the remains his own drink is snatched from his hand, with a teasing “snooze, you lose,” by his date.  

Ja’far sticks his empty cup out to her in defiance, even if he can already feel a flush rising in his face.

“Think you can keep up, do you?” she teases him, taking his empty cup.

“I’m under no illusion I have your body mass or metabolism.  I just had to win at least one.”  

“Calling me fat?”  It’s accusatory, but Ja’far can hear the amusement in her voice.  

“Not yet.  But keep drinking like that and in another ten years you will be.”  

“Guess we’ll have to wait and find out.”  She pauses to look around, then gestures to an unoccupied table pushed up to a couch.  “Go sit, I’ll go get more.”  

Ja’far is all too eager to find a fixed point in the rambunctious crowd, and darts quickly for the unoccupied seats.   In the commotion, he shoots a pointed glance at Sinbad.  “Shoo, you’re making this harder with your hovering,” he mumbles, hoping it gets heard.  

Apparently it does, because though he makes a pained face, Sinbad vanishes, and Ja’far turns his attention back to Mystras, who is edging into the seat, kitty-corner across the wobbly table.  There’s a stilted moment of silence, and Ja’far decides he might as well get on with it, if Mystras isn’t going to help.

But apparently he is, because they both start sentences at the same time.  

“Sorry,” Mystras says.

Ja’far waves his hand dismissively.  “Go ahead.”

“Uh, I was just…” he rubs self-consciously at his head.  “You’re not  _ actually  _ related, are you?”

“What was your first guess?” Ja’far chuckles.  “No, we’re not, but I’m not going to try to encroach on your guys’....thing, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“No, no, that’s not it at all!” Mystras protests.  “Sorry, I was just trying to have conversation, but I guess that was kind of a rude comment.”  

Ja’far shakes his head.  “It’s fine; I’m used to it by now.  Pipirika is technically my...aunt?  I guess?  But a lot of our family all live close to each other, so we grew up with a lot of relatives.”  

Mystras nods.  “My family is like that too.  But even my brothers and I are much less….expressive, I suppose.”

“You are kind of quiet.  Don’t let her step on you too much.”

Mystras frowns.  “I try so hard  _ not  _ to be quiet.  Girls just make me nervous.”

Ja’far only holds back his laugh because the guy looks truly embarrassed.  “It’s alright, any social skills I have are only learned by force.”  

“I’ve learned far more social graces than I’d like, just none of them taught me how to deal with any real human beings.” 

That’s a strange comment Ja’far doesn’t quite know how to reply to, so changes the subject.  “So how  _ did _ you end up here with Pipi?”

“Um, we met at a volleyball thing, and she just sort of….latched on.  Not that I was averse to the idea or anything,” he adds swiftly.

“And stayed?”  Ja’far tries to keep his eyebrows from drifting too far up his forehead.

Mystras frowns.  “Does she usually not?”

“Uh, no.  Not that I’ve seen.  She’s about the closest thing to an older sister that I have, but she’s never been one for commitment.”  

“Ah,” Mystras responds, looking a bit forlorn.

“Why so disappointed?  Our whole family is too...well, family oriented, for her to not settle down one day, if that’s what you’re worried about.”  

He wrings his hands slightly, eyes flicking in Pipirika’s direction and then back down.  “No, that’s not it.  I was going to...ask for advice.  But if she’s like family then that’s kind of weird.”

Ja’far frowns.  “Advice on what?”

Mystras immediately goes red.  “You know….. _ advice _ .”  

“You’re going to have to be more specific.” 

“Uh--it’s just--” he flusters.  “I’ve never really been with anyone, other than the odd date or two.  So you know….religious family, private school, backwards social codes...”

“Oh!”  Ja’far doesn’t bother to hold back a laugh.  “I mean I’m not exactly a good source of relationship advice, trust me.”  

“You know Pipirika though.”

“Sure, but she’ll tell you what she wants much better than I can.  She’s not one to beat around the bush, if you just ask her.”  

“I can’t just... _ ask  _ her!”

“Why not?”  

He splutters for a moment before bringing his drink up to take a sip and hide his face.  “That’s just not how it’s supposed to go!”  

“Pipi’s not one for whatever traditional roles you’re worried about, I wouldn’t concern yourself with it too much.”  

He flounders for a moment, then sags.  “...this is one of those things my upbringing taught me really incorrectly, isn’t it?”  

“Probably.”  

Mystras drops his head to the table.  “I just don’t want to do it wrong.”  

“I don’t think there’s really a right or wrong way to do relationships, to be honest with you,” Ja’far attempts to comfort.  “Just see what happens.”

“It’s just...I’m older, you know?  I should know how to do this by now, but I don’t even know how to explain that I really like her.”

Ja’far can’t help but laugh at how truly distraught he appears.  “Just tell her what you told me; she’ll think it’s cute.”  

“I don’t want to be ‘cute!’”  

“Pipi’s dated plenty of guys a lot bigger and tougher than you,” Ja’far replies.  “Never seems to work out for her for long.  Embrace your innocence factor, maybe it’ll give you an edge.”  

Mystras just makes a despairing noise and buries his face in his arms.  

“Mystras, are you drunk already?”

He jolts immediately back up at the sound of Pipirika’s voice.  “No!  Just resting!”  

“....if you say so.”  She sets down the drinks she had retrieved and scoots next to Mystras.  

Ja’far snickers at the look of distress on his face, and she glares at him suspiciously.

“Ja’far, what were you telling him?”

“Nothing important,” he says, face suddenly a perfect mask of innocence.  

She squints in disbelief.  “You might be able to pull that innocent act on some people, but not on me.”  

“I really didn’t tell him anything.  Why are you so worried?  Something embarrassing in particular that you are trying to hide?” Ja’far teases.  

“This is the last time I do  _ you  _ a favor,” she mutters in return.  Then a thought seems to occur to her.  “Why  _ did  _ you come to this, anyway?”  

“Just figured I was holing myself up too much.”

“That’s never seemed to bother you before.”  

“Maybe I’m a changed man.”

“Yeah right,” she scoffs.  “I’ll figure it out one day, just you wait.”

“Do your best, then,” Ja’far returns.  No one in their right mind would ever guess, so he feels safe in the challenge.  In order to shut off the conversation, he shoves his face into his drink and elbows Mystras to get his head onto Pipirika’s shoulder.

* * *

 

He does end up having more fun than he thought, though his voice is hoarse with shouting over music by the time it’s done.  He tries to contain his amusement as alcohol makes Pipirika more and more affectionate and clingy, and Mystras just more and more red in the face with her proximity.  A few acquaintances stop by and make friendly conversation, and Ja’far manages to push off the couple flirtatious comments he gets with feigned obliviousness.  Despite all that, Ja’far manages to keep at least enough of his wits about him to call a taxi before any of his party are too nauseous or stumbling, gets them home, and plops both Mystras and Pipirika onto his futon.  He then fumbles his way into the bathroom, scrubs clumsily at his face, and falls into bed.  

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Ja’far startles out of his drowsiness, then takes the opportunity to force himself out of bed long enough to shed stiff jeans, before flopping back down.  “Stop scaring me, Sin.  I’m tired.”  

“You  _ looked _ like you had fun.”

Ja’far waves his arm messily.  “Go away.  I don’t like talking to you when I’m not thinking straight, since I dunno what’ll come out.”  

Sinbad can do little but purse his lips in mild confusion at that statement, staring at the back of Ja’far’s messy head as he mashes his face into the pillow.  “You’re not  _ that  _ drunk.  You managed to hold conversation all night.”  Usually when Ja’far drinks too much, he just goes to sleep.

“It was loud.  Didn’t have a choice.”

Sinbad rolls his eyes.  “No, you’re just being annoying because you know I was right.”

“No.”

“You made at least one new friend.”

“No.”

Sinbad tries to hold back a laugh.  “Yeah you did.”  

Ja’far turns his head to face Sinbad again.  “You knew he was around, didn’t you?” he accuses.  “That’s why you were so insistent I go and take Pipi.”  

Sinbad tries not to smile at Ja’far’s expression, a valiant attempt at angry even if his eyes are a bit too unfocused and soft to be truly believable.  “I really didn’t.”

“Yeah you _ did _ .”

“You are so belligerent.  I really didn’t.  I wouldn’t lie to you about things like that, Ja’far.”  

“Maybe.”

“Definitely.”  Sinbad pauses in his futile argument for a moment.  “He was much quieter, than I remember.”  

“He’s older, was sheltered for longer, maybe,” Ja’far offers.

“I guess.”

Ja’far makes a gesture that might be a clumsy shrug.  “I wouldn’t know, you don’t talk about some people as much as others.”  

Sinbad bites his lip, having not realized Ja’far was so perceptive of what information he gave and didn’t give.  “Sorry.  I’ve got reasons, sort of.”  

Ja’far hums in response.

“It’s just…” Sinbad feels a need to explain himself, at least a little.  “Some of them make me more guilty than others, and Mystras makes me more guilty than most.”  

He gets no response, and looks back up at Ja’far, before finding his eyes closed.

“Ja’far?”

A sleepy snuffle is his only answer, and Sinbad smiles in spite of himself.

“I guess I’ll tell you in the morning.”

* * *

 

By the time his nineteenth birthday has come and gone, Ja’far has perfected the ability to be social enough to be liked and included, without taking up too much of his personal time.  He’s made a valiant effort to at least have a presence in his department, and thus occasionally allows himself to be peer-pressured into attending a party, since those are often the easiest to make himself known at before leaving when no one is paying attention..  But as usual, said peers have all become rowdier than he felt like being around, tonight.  He beelines straight for the most isolated, comfy corner he can see, intending to sit there with his drink and play on his phone, but sees someone else has already had that idea.  He smiles awkwardly and sits down on the opposite end of the couch, leaving both of their personal space bubbles intact.  

“Too much?” the girl on the couch asks him.

“Too much,” Ja’far agrees.  “Not really a loud party person, but I’m stuck here with friends.”  

She laughs.  “At least we’re in the same boat.”  

They could both just fall silent at this point, but for some reason keep talking.  It’s a bit strained and stilted for a while, until it comes up that she is a year above Ja’far, in the literature department.  Ja’far finds she reads just as prolifically as him, and can talk about it endlessly and in depth.  From there, speaking is easy, and neither of them realize nearly two hours and four or five drinks apiece have passed until she leans over and kisses him.  

Ja’far is surprised, but not displeased, and reciprocates.  Aided by the alcohol and comfortable atmosphere, it gets hotter and heavier, until she is on his lap and suggesting they go back to her place.  Ja’far does hesitate at this, forcing himself to state that he’d love to, but doesn’t want to give her any impression that he wants anything more.  

Contrary to what he expects, she actually looks relieved at this.  

“Don’t get me wrong,” she laughs awkwardly.  “I like you, but I don’t want anything else either.”  

That established, Ja’far is more than willing.  There is further nervous conversation over which it is determined they are both still virgins, which somehow actually makes it less frightening rather than more, as there are no expectations to live up to and neither feels inferior to the other.  

They both end up satisfied with the encounter, in the end, and though she offers to let Ja’far stay out of courtesy, he politely refuses, knowing that neither of them really want that.  

Sinbad, of course, pesters him endlessly.  Ja’far refuses to divulge more than that, seeing as it involves the privacy of two people, and not just himself.   

“You’re really not going to tell me?  It’s not like I can share it with anyone else,”  Sinbad pouts.  “Why, did you do something embarrassing?”  

“I’m really not, Sin.  I did what she told me she liked, and we both ended up more than happy with it.  Nothing more embarrassing than is normal, I think.”  

“What sort of person doesn’t go gossip to their friend about their first time?” Sinbad bemoans.  

“The polite type of person, who doesn’t talk details about someone who probably wouldn’t want me to do so,” Ja’far states with irritation.  “You’ve seen and participated in plenty of sex.  I’m sure nothing happened that you haven’t already experienced.”  

“It’s just that normally you tell your best friend about milestones like this, and I want to know,” Sinbad complains.  

“Too bad, not happening.  She is going to keep her privacy, and if you want to know about me, I’m sure any of the times you’ve watched me jack off are enough to inform you.” Ja’far rolls his eyes and hopes that’s enough to end the conversation.  

It does end it, though a bit too effectively.  Sinbad turns pale, and stares at Ja’far with wide, horrified eyes, lips pinched tightly together.  He looks like he is trying to prevent himself from being sick.  

“Sin?  Did you really think I didn’t--” 

Ja’far stops, because Sinbad is already gone, dropped through the floor in a rapid exit.  Ja’far puts his fingers to his temples and sighs.  He’d figured it was just a weird, unspoken agreement not to talk about it, but apparently Sinbad genuinely thought he had hidden his voyeurism.  Oh well, he’d be back, and they could talk about it then if they wanted.  

 

Ja’far had thought Sinbad would only be gone for a few hours, as that was how long it usually took him to go freak out about something before coming back to sort it out properly.  But it is nearly two and a half days before Ja’far sees Sinbad again; long enough that he actually started worrying that he might never come back.  

So when he comes home from his evening shift and sees Sinbad sulking on the couch, Ja’far breathes a sigh of relief.  

“Thank god,  _ there  _ you are.  I was scared I was going to have to actually live life without you.”  

Sinbad looks up in surprise, and then quickly jerks his eyes back to the floor.  “You thought I wasn’t coming back?”  

“Not really,” Ja’far says as he puts his bag down and washes his hands.  “But I was starting to worry about it, nonetheless.”  

“I’m never going to leave you forever, Ja’far,” Sinbad murmurs quietly.  “I told you that already.”

“Did you?  I didn’t realize how much I talked to you until you weren’t there anymore.  Sometimes you’re a nuisance, but I missed you anyway.”  

Sinbad looks slightly hurt as his question but doesn’t reply, and Ja’far decides it isn’t worth pushing, so starts microwaving some leftover spaghetti to eat before he showers and crashes into bed.  He is on his fourth bite when Sinbad speaks up again.  

“You’re not mad?”  

Ja’far looks at him, but Sinbad is still staring resolutely at the carpet.  “If I were going to get mad, I would have done it the first time I caught you.”

“Why didn’t you?”  

Ja’far sticks another forkful of spaghetti in his mouth and shrugs.  “I’ve gotten used to you knowing everything I don’t want anyone to know about me.  You were bound to walk in on me eventually, so it was easier to just give up from the start.”  

“I’m really, really sorry,” Sinbad pleads.  “I crossed so many boundaries of privacy, doing that.”  

“Your entire existence is basically one long invasion of my privacy,” Ja’far points out.  “It definitely freaked me out at first, and I did  _ think _ about getting mad.  But you’ve already told me we were together before; I assume you’ve already seen all of me there is to see,” he reasons.  

What Ja’far doesn’t admit is that a great deal of his masturbatory fantasies involve Sinbad, and have done so since he was a young teenager, so it’s really only a fair trade.  Alluding to that will only make him yell at Ja’far again, about how he should find someone else, someone real; and Ja’far doesn’t feel like getting in a fight that neither of them can win.

He had meant to placate Sinbad, but apparently his previous statement had only upset him further, as Sinbad continues apologizing.  

“I’m sorry.  I’m so, so sorry, Ja’far.  Your whole life is weird because of me, and now I’m--”  

“Look at me, Sin,” Ja’far interrupts.  Sinbad pinches his lips, but does eventually manage to look up, his face a mixture of melancholy and embarrassment that Ja’far tries very hard not to laugh at.  “My life is much better for having you in it.  And it’s really not that big of a deal, that you watch me.  I honestly thought  _ you _ knew that  _ I _ knew, and we kind of just both agreed not to talk about it.  Don’t make yourself miserable over it.”  

Sinbad looks terribly confused, but at least he doesn’t look sad anymore.  “You… really don’t care.”  

“I mean I guess it’s kind of weird, if you think too hard about it, but I try not to.”  Ja’far meets Sinbad’s eyes, and they both quickly look away.  “Uh, you don’t have to hide, next time, since I know you’re there.  Don’t watch me with other people though, since they can’t give you permission.  I take it you weren’t there a couple of days ago?”     

Sinbad shakes his head rapidly and puts his hands up in defense to confirm he didn’t watch, but fails to hide the flicker of pain in his eyes.  Ja’far sees it, and it makes his chest ache, to know that it hurts Sinbad to think of him with other people.  He knows it will anger Sinbad if he never involves himself with anyone at all, that he might even start distancing himself, in order to give Ja’far a more ‘normal’ life.  But Ja’far swears to himself then and there to keep it purely sexual.  He can’t give Sinbad that, no matter how much he’d like to, but he can give him his romantic loyalty.

Sinbad wouldn’t accept it, so Ja’far won’t say it, but Ja’far doubts he could love anyone else, anyway; not while Sinbad is still in his life, at least. 

“I definitely did not watch,” Sinbad says with urgency.  “And no, I won’t watch you alone anymore, either.  I never should have in the first place.  If I’d known you knew, I wouldn’t have, so I definitely won’t actually sit there and watch  _ now _ , that would be too…. I don’t know.  I’m sorry.”  

Ja’far knows what Sinbad is trying to avoid saying, that it would be too close to what Sinbad insists he can’t give him.  “Stop apologizing.  Just… do as you like, I guess.  But know it doesn’t really bother me, at this point.”  

There is an awkward silence, and Ja’far decides to use it to finish eating his late dinner before it gets cold.  After he is done and his dishes are washed, Ja’far tries to break the tension.  “Well, I’m going to go take a shower, where I plan on jacking off, if you’d care to watch.  And then I’m going to go to bed right away, because I’m tired as hell.”  

Sinbad hides his face in his hands and shakes his head.  

Ja’far peels off a sock and throws it in his direction, to get his attention.  “You’re always welcome to leave and go wherever you’d like.  Just tell me, next time, so I don’t worry.”  

Sinbad gives what might be a nod, and Ja’far figures that’s as good as he’s going to get, so ventures off to the bathroom after grabbing a pair of pajamas.  He is unfortunately still young and hormonal enough that even suggesting Sinbad watch him had gotten him aroused, and Ja’far sighs in resignation as he gets under the warm stream of water, stroking himself slowly.  Rarely is he ungrateful to have Sinbad at all, but right now he wants nothing more than for them to be able to touch each other.  He knows Sinbad won’t watch, and will probably keep good on that promise for a while yet, but definitely wishes he would, even if that’s all he can ever get.  

Ja’far is ordinarily fairly quiet during sexual activities, but thinks he would talk and make noise, if Sinbad was there and waiting to hear it.  So many times he’s wanted to say Sinbad’s name, but always restrained himself, fearing it would cause an angry argument.  But he knows he isn’t here to hear it now, and so tries whispering a quiet “Sin,” into the steamy air.  The reaction Ja’far has to his own voice is surprisingly strong, and his hips jerk into his hand of their own accord, so Ja’far does it again.  And again, and again, until he has his forehead against the wall of the shower, whispering a nearly silent mantra of Sinbad’s name, hand stripping faster and faster over his cock.  

He comes with a small, shocked gasp, at how fast and strong it happens, and slumps over slightly, breathing hard.  Perhaps he should do that more often, if Sinbad sticks to his word and really doesn’t watch anymore.  

Eventually, Ja’far straightens, letting water run down his hand and dripping strategically to wash semen off the floor and down the drain, and then really does wash himself.  He feels the drowsiness of his hormonal release setting in and gets out to dress quickly before brushing his teeth, wanting to fall into bed after a typically exhausting week.  Saturday is the only day off he allows himself, and he plans to sleep in.  

Sinbad is lying on the bed when he leaves the bathroom, eyes closed.  

“That was quick,” he teases, and then immediately flushes and throws his arm over his face at unintentionally bringing up the subject again.  

“Had a good thought,” Ja’far admits.  “Not like I’m trying to impress anyone, alone in the shower.”  He flops down into bed, and Sinbad starts to get off.  “You can stay there, if you want.  It’s not like you get in my way.”  Sinbad does stay, but is still avoiding him and acting unbearably awkward.  “Where were you, the last couple days?”  

“Outside the city,” Sinbad answers after a while.  “I was in a tree.”  

“You spent two days moping… in a tree.”  

“I wasn’t moping!  I really felt terrible and weird about it!”

“But why a tree?” Ja’far insists.  

“Because it was better than on the ground?  I just instinctively went there to hide, don’t make me feel weirder than I already do.  Nature is comforting.”  

Ja’far pats the bed next to Sinbad’s shoulder.  “Sorry, I’ll stop talking.  Try not to think too hard while I sleep, ok?  I can put on the tv, if that helps.”  

Sinbad finally pulls his arm off of his eyes, and rolls them sideways to regard Ja’far.  “It’s alright, you like the quiet.  I’ll stay here for a while and then go watch people fall over in bars or something, to reintegrate myself with society.  Friday nights are usually entertaining.”

“If you say so.”

Sinbad gets up and heads towards the fall facing outside.

“Sin?”

He looks back in askance.  

“Don’t think too much.”  

Sinbad pulls out his best winning smile.  “Now  _ that’s _ not something you say to me all that often.”

Ja’far rolls his eyes.  “I mean it.  Brooding doesn’t suit you.”  And isn’t fun for Ja’far to watch him hide his distress, either.  

“I’ll try my best.  Goodnight, Ja’far.”  

“Don’t wander too far.”  

“I’ll be back before you can even miss me,” Sinbad says with a wink, then disappears through the wall.  

Ja’far rolls over with a huff, displeased with Sinbad’s swift disappearance.  He could tell from the force of his smile and his mannerisms that Sinbad was not quite done brooding yet, and braces himself for more quick exits and fakes smiles, at least for another week.  It’s one of the more frustrating things about Sinbad, that he won’t ever talk until he’s well past ready, but Ja’far has given up trying to extract things Sinbad really doesn’t want to say.

Taking a deep breath in, Ja’far holds it, then exhales, concentrating on relaxing the frown off his face.   _ Best take my own advice; overthinking never got anyone anywhere _ .  Determined to think of other matters, Ja’far does his best to distract himself from concerns for Sinbad until, somewhere in the middle of it, he manages to fall asleep.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So originally this chapter was going to be like twice as long, but then I realized just how long that was, and that I could not finish it this week, and that this is more than sufficient in length. Hopefully it's good enough, since I want to update before Ohtaka throws another boomerang at me.
> 
> Also Ja'far sleeps on the ground in memory of all the times I drove around in the middle of the night and slept in a bush, in my younger years. If you're ever at the end of your wits, it's strangely comforting.


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you know, magi's been kind of wild lately.  
> And that election has been kind of wild lately.  
> And life has been kind of wild lately.  
> Anyway, here's some words.

Ja’far’s second year goes much more smoothly, now that he is settled into a routine.  He goes to class, to work, and has managed to assemble enough friends that he can go to small get-togethers rather than loud parties, should he feel the need to socialize.  

The one notable exception to the banality in his first few months of sophomore year is one sheepish freshman who walks into the tutoring center barely half an hour before it closes.  Ja’far looks up in automatic annoyance, and quickly has to school his expression when Sinbad proceeds to screech with laughter.  

“Can I help you?” Ja’far asks.  

“Uh, yeah.”  The kid tugs nervously at shaggy, bleached hair.  “I’ve got a math exam I need help studying for.”  

“Alright,” Ja’far says, a bit hesitant.  “I guess that would be me, then.  Might have been better off coming in when we weren’t about to close.”  

“Didn’t exactly want to come,” is the muttered reply.  

“Clearly.”  Ja’far pats the seat next to him anyway.  “I’m Ja’far, by the way.”  

“Sharrkan,” he answers, sitting down and immediately slouching over.  

Ja’far blinks a few times in rapid succession, skilled at hiding surprise by now.  Most people wouldn’t notice, but Sharrkan does, and he sighs.  

“Please don’t look at me like that.”

“What?” Ja’far replies.

“Like that.”  He waves his arm vaguely.  

“I really have no idea what you’re talking about.  How am I looking at you?”  Ja’far does not take kindly to rudeness from someone already pushing the boundaries of how much help he wants to give.

“Like you already know me,” Sharrkan drawls, leaning back in his chair and glaring down his nose.

“I’ve never met you before in my life.”  

“Yet you already act like you know me.”

“How on earth would I know anything about a stranger I’ve never met?”  Ja’far is about ready to kick him out, previous lifetime or not.

“Don’t play stupid,” he retaliates.

Ja’far finally loses his temper.  “ _ You’re _ the stupid one here, since you think you can just barge in here half an hour before closing and have enough time to learn.  When is your exam?  Because if it’s tomorrow then you’re using up precious time arguing with me.”  

“....Wednesday,” he answers, after a beat.

“Today is Monday.”

“I know that!”  Sharrkan peers at him.  “You really don’t know me?”

“No.”

“Not even anyone who looks like me?”

Ja’far squints right back at him.  “I think I’d remember if I met someone who looked like you.”  

“Then why’d you look at me so funny?”

“Unusual name,” Ja’far lies with ease.  “Thought you’d be like….Daniel, or Chad, or something.” 

“I do  _ not  _ look like a Chad!”

“Yeah you do.”

“Does your boss know you’re this rude?”  

“My boss knows I’m only rude to people who deserve it.”  Ja’far decides that’s enough of that.  “Now tell me what you need help with, and we can both be on our ways.”  

Sharrkan flusters for a moment, but fails to come up with a retaliatory remark, so hunches back over.  “All of it.”

“The whole book?”

“All of the last three chapters since my last exam.”

“...Naturally.”  Ja’far sighs, resigns himself to a bit of overtime, and forces Sharrkan to make an appointment the next afternoon before buckling down to do what he can.

* * *

 

Ja’far does not see Sharrkan again once his exam has passed, and does not have the time or inclination to seek him out.  Several weeks later he’s walking home in increasingly cold winter air, when his phone rings.  Fumbling off his gloves in order to answer, he sees Yamuraiha on the caller ID and picks up with a quick greeting.

“Drinks Friday?” she asks.

Ja’far sighs.  “Do I have to?  I kind of just want to sleep.”

“Yes, you have to.  Some guy asked me out to drinks and I don’t want to go alone.”

“Then why’d you agree?”

“Because I’m bad at saying no!  But if you just pretend to be my boyfriend, then I won’t have to.”

Ja’far tries not to laugh at how foolproof she seems to think this plan is.  “I’m not going to be your fake boyfriend, Yamu.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to.  Besides, who says yes to something that is  _ clearly  _ a date, and then brings their ‘boyfriend.’”  

“Me!”

“You’ve got to solve your own social problems, Yamu.”  

A distraught noise is his only answer.  

“I’ll come, for your safety if nothing else, but I’m not going to pretend to be your boyfriend.”

She sighs.  “I’ll take what I can get, I guess.”  

“Who knows, you might even end up liking him.”

Fake gagging ensues.  “Definitely not.”

“Well I’ll see you Friday, I guess.  Text me the time and the place.”

“Alright.  And thanks for saving my ass yet again.”

“What are friends for.”

* * *

 

Yamuraiha, of course, is running late.  She usually is, easily distracted and then self-conscious about getting ready, so Ja’far is used to it.  Rather than stand awkwardly outside the bar and wait, he elects to go in and get something to eat, maybe see if he can pick her misbegotten date out of the crowd.  

Upon entering, he notices an unfortunately familiar face, and gives a stilted wave.  

“Oh god,” Sharrkan mutters to himself, before deciding to at least exchange polite greetings.  “Please tell me you’re just here to pick up girls.”

Ja’far shakes his head.  “Nope, just here to meet a friend.”  

“A hot, nerdy, female friend, knowing my luck,” he grumbles, not intending to be overheard.

Ja’far holds a hand up to his mouth to hide a laugh, but fails.  “That would be the one.”

“Fuck.”  There goes any chance of getting laid.  “Oh well, I already knew I was in for a weird one when she said she was bringing a friend.”

“Can you blame her?  Strangers and alcohol is sometimes a dangerous mix.”

“No,” he sighs, “I can’t blame her.”

There’s an awkward pause.

“So…” Ja’far starts, a bit strained.  “Why Yamu?  When she clearly isn’t….interested.”  And he  _ knows  _ she’s more than a lot less than tactful around men who are interested in her.

“I asked her because she yelled at me,” he answers.

“Got a masochistic streak, or something?”

“No!” Sharrkan flusters.  “I just...you know.  Like it when people don’t know or care about my family.  And she’s got...uh, nevermind.”

“Nice assets,” Ja’far supplies wryly.

He drops his head.  “She’s drop-dead gorgeous.  Even if she’s a shrill stickler for academics.”  He looks back up, eyes critical.  “Which, by the way, seems like just your type.  She turn you down, too?”  

“Nah.  We tried, when we were little.  Just…” Ja’far meshes his fingers together, “no chemistry.”  

“No chemistry with  _ that _ ?”  Sharrkan asks, incredulous.  “You gay or something?”

Ja’far just shrugs in reply.

“Shit, sorry, that came out worse than I meant it to.”

“It’s alright.  I don’t really know what I’d qualify as.  I’ve just got a rather... one track mind at the moment, and Yamuraiha is more like family than anything else.”  Sinbad is around somewhere, and he’s not keen to drop hints that he can’t skirt around.

“Fair enough.”  Sharrkan is at least glad he doesn’t have competition.

“As such, if you make a move on her and she responds with anything less than enthusiasm, I  _ will  _ hurt you.”  

Sharrkan raises his eyebrows.  “You know, we might get on better than I thought.”

“There’s that masochism, again.”

“Drop it, would you?  My brother would take someone to court, for threatening him like you just did me.”

“You’re not going to make friends by holding your family over everyone,” Ja’far adds.  

“You looked me up, didn’t you?”

“Can you blame me, with the reaction you had?”

“No, I guess not,” he sighs.

“You’ve got some awfully big shoes to fill.  Or a great free ride, if you suck up to your apparently sue-happy brother.”  

“Not on your life.  The only way I’m going back there is in a coffin.”

Ja’far raises his eyebrows and holds up his hands in placation.  “Didn’t say you should.”

Sharrkan growls in frustration, then drops his forehead into open palms.  “I know.  I’m just…”

“Bad at making friends?”

“Yes!”

Ja’far can’t help but laugh.  “Maybe start by just leaving your family out of it entirely.”

“I try, but most people figure it out pretty fast, anyway.”

“Yamuraiha won’t.  She’s about as socially aware as a brick wall.  And personally, I don’t give a shit, as long as you don’t act like an ass.”  

Sharrkan rubs a hand down his face.  “I don’t know how to do this; I just get nervous and then get mad in defense.”  

Ja’far sees Yamuraiha come through the door, looking around until she spots them.  “No time like the present to learn.”  

Yamuraiha greets Ja’far eagerly, and Sharrkan suspiciously, tries to sit next to Ja’far until he glares, and then sits next to Sharrkan in resignation.  It starts off pleasant enough, but it isn’t five minutes before a fight breaks out, Yamuraiha apparently offended by Sharrkan’s suggestion of what she should order.  

After that, it’s really just a flurry of heated insults, and passive-aggressive discussions about everything from fashion to ethics.  Ja’far barely even speaks, as every time he tries he just gets shouted over, and he wonders how long it will be before food starts flying instead of words.  On the one hand, it’s quite interesting to see Yamuraiha so heated when normally she just stammers and makes a silent fool of herself, but on the other, everyone is staring at them, and Ja’far is outnumbered in his attempts to make peace.  

Ja’far looks pleadingly at Sinbad, who simply shrugs and then turns back to watching in amusement, like he has been since he arrived ten minutes ago.  He turns to more material back up, and begins texting Pipirika.  He types a quick “save me,” and hopes she responds. 

After a few minutes she replies, and it is with great gratitude that Ja’far gives her the specifics and arranges for her and Mystras to come intervene.

It’s still another twenty minutes of suffering before relief arrives.

Sharrkan freezes, as soon as he sees them walk through the door.  “Shit.”

“Why are you upset  _ now?”  _  Yamuraiha complains loudly.  She looks in the direction he is, and then turns to Ja’far.  “Did you have to call in the reinforcements?”

“You were making and embarrassment of me and yourselves.”  Ja’far looks curiously at Sharrkan, who seems to have zeroed in on Mystras and Pipirika, despite presumably having no idea they were invited by Ja’far.

His curiosity is answered when he sees Mystras raise his eyebrows and come up to the table.  “Well fancy seeing you here, Sharrkan.”  

“Uh, hi.”

“You know each other?” Yamuraiha asks.

“Reject heirs of rich families in the same niche market,” Mystras explains, while Sharrkan looks down at the table and fidgets.  “You know, I think my dad felt a lot better about the way I left when he heard that you were just as bad.”  

“Not sure that’s a good thing,” he mutters.  

“Is your family full of prudes, too?” Pipirika asks, a teasing grin on her face causing Mystras to flush.

“Hardly,” Sharrkan answers.  “Much more flamboyantly rich than the Leoxses.  Unfortunately.”  

“Rich boy, huh?”  Yamuraiha adds.  “You would be.”

“Hey!”

“Leave it, Yamu,” Ja’far scolds.  “It’s a sensitive topic.”  

“It’s not  _ sensitive _ ,” Sharrkan protests, “it’s just--”

“Not what we’re going to talk about,” Pipirika interrupts cheerfully, sliding into the booth next to Ja’far.  

He sends her a grateful look.  

“Yamuraiha, I’ve actually got a favor to ask of you,” she continues.  “The biology department website needs a  _ serious  _ makeover, and I need some portfolio pieces, so I figure you could maybe point me in the direction of who to talk to?”

“Um, I think so?  I’m still new here, though.”

“What better way to get more involved, then,” she says with a playful nudge, swiping Ja’far’s drink.  

“I guess.  I’ll ask around, at least.”

“Thanks!  I’ll try and run stuff by you, too.  Make sure I don’t make any science geek faux pauxs.”

“Um...ok.”

As they chatter on, Sharrkan looks hesitantly at Mystras, then back to the women, then back to Mystras, hoping for an explanation without actually asking.

“Oh.  Um, that’s my girlfriend, Pipirika,” he supplies.

She looks up at the sound of her name long enough to wave.  

“Facebook official,” Ja’far comments.

Mystras flushes.  “Uh, yeah, I guess.”  

“And is she...Yamuraiha’s sister, or something?”  Despite the height difference, the hair is rather similar.  

“No, she’s mine,” Ja’far answers.  “Yamuraiha was just over at my house a lot, growing up.  So they know each other.”

“See, that would not have been my first guess,” Sharrkan replies, looking skeptically between them.

“I’m adopted.  And Pipi is technically...my aunt, I guess.  Feels more like a sibling or cousin, though.”  

“They’ve got a big family,” Mystras adds.

“Very much so,” Ja’far agrees.  “Which is probably why she always steals my food and drink,” he adds with a pointed glance at the culprit.  

She just winks and continues her conversation with Yamuraiha.  

* * *

 

“Do I have to keep him,” Ja’far whines, finally back within the safe confines of his apartment after what had turned into a rather long and rowdy night.  

Sinbad chuckles.  “You don’t  _ have  _ to do anything.”

“He’s just going to be so much work.”

“He’s got daddy issues.  And mommy issues.”

“And brother issues.”

“Yes, especially those,” Ja’far agrees.  “And I don’t like the way men look at Yamuraiha; he’s no exception.”  

“She can take care of herself, Ja’far,” Sinbad chides.

“Can she really?  She’s always been terrible with men.”

Sinbad winces, then waves his hand indecisively.  “Sharrkan won’t actually hurt her.  He acts like a scumbag, but he isn’t  _ really  _ a scumbag.”

“You sure about that?  You didn’t raise him, this time around.”  For better or worse.  

“I’ve been keeping an eye out.”

“And not telling me about it, yet again.”

“I told you, I don’t want to force things unless I think you can help.  I saw he and Yamuraiha were in seminar together, and figured it would come about one way or another.”  

Ja’far decides he doesn’t have the energy to squabble.  “Whatever.  He’s annoying anyway.”

“You’re just being overprotective.  He really gets on with Yamuraiha better than you think.”

“I thought they were going to get in a fist fight.”

Sinbad laughs and nods.  “Yep, that’s how they get along.  Maybe it’ll be better if Sharrkan can actually get the balls to try and resolve the sexual tension, this time.”

“As long as he does it with permission.”

Sinbad rolls his eyes.  “I told you, he’s not that sort.”

“Well he’s going to have to put it pretty bluntly, for Yamu to get it.”

“Yeah, I think that’s why he couldn’t manage it before.  He’s not got the best social skills, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Oh trust me, I noticed.”

“You better work on him, then, since I think you now as well as I do that Yamu is a lost cause in that regard.”  

Ja’far makes a distasteful face.  “Not sure I want to hook my best friend up with someone that high maintenance.”

“Fine, fine,” Sinbad relents.  “Just give it some time, you’ll see.”  

* * *

 

Despite a bit of a rocky start, Sharrkan actually ends up a rather welcome addition to Ja’far’s otherwise relatively relaxed group of friends.  The problem is, sitting in a crowded living room and passing drinks as well as weekly complaints, Ja’far is suddenly even more of the odd man out than he usually is.

“I’ve somehow ended up the third wheel in three different relationships,” Ja’far realizes.

“Who’s the third couple?”

Ja’far holds up one finger, looking at Pipirika and Mystras, and second at Drakon and Saher getting way too snuggly on the couch, then looks at Yamuraiha flatly, to Sharrkan, then back at her again.

“We are  _ not  _ a couple!” she protests angrily.

“Y-yeah!” Sharrkan agrees, a heartbeat too late for Ja’far to believe him.  “I’d never date such a moody...bitch!”

“Say that to my face!”

“I just did!”  

“Say it again so I can slap you, you misogynist pig!”  

Ja’far grimaces and scoots slightly away on the couch, trying to distance himself from the yelling.  “I should never have said anything,” he mutters.  

“Too late now,” Mystras adds, giving Ja’far a comforting pat to the shoulder.  

Sinbad perches on the arm of the couch, giving Ja’far warning so he doesn’t startle when he speaks.  “Masrur will come next semester.  He and Sharrkan already know each other, so I’m sure you’ll intersect at some point.”

Ja’far grabs his phone to type a response into.  “Sharrkan actually had friends in high school?”

“You’re so mean,” Sinbad laughs.  “Yes, they got along alright.  Mostly just because Masrur is quiet and doesn’t give a shit where anyone comes from, I think.”

“Sounds like it’d work,” Ja’far taps out in reply.

“At least then you won’t be the only single person,” Sinbad teases.

“Rub it in, why don’t you?”

And yet despite the squabbles, crammed room, and the way it makes him feel slightly lonely, Ja’far flops back into the understuffed cushions, and is grateful for what he has.  

* * *

 

In his junior year, Ja’far runs into  yet another unforeseen social situation.

“Sin, help me,” he whines, face mashed into his bed.

“With what?”

“I don’t know how to wear a tuxedo,” he grumbles.

“And why do you, master of sweatpants, need to wear a tuxedo?”

Ja’far turns his head to the side to glare at the slight.  “Mahad’s wedding.  I said I’d be in the party.  Plus someone is going to have to finish Vittel’s toast for him when he starts sobbing.”

Sinbad snorts.  “Worst assassin ever.”

“Was he?”  

“Nah, he was all scary and...” Sinbad pauses to wave his arms about in a disjointed fashion “...at first.  He only got all teary and soft later, but personally I think it’s his true nature.”  

“Uh, what does--” Ja’far flops his arm curiously “--mean?”

“It’s...you know, it doesn’t really matter.  He just had wonky arms.”  Sinbad waves his hand dismissively.  “Anyway, weddings are fun.  Don’t look so miserable.”  

“I’ll have to talk to so many people,” Ja’far grumbles.  “While wearing stiff clothes.”

“I don’t know why you’re asking me for help; I’ve never worn a tuxedo.”

Ja’far frowns.  “It just seemed like something you would know.”  

“Not something I could tell you any better than the internet.”

“What are you good for, then,” Ja’far grumbles, but sits up to pull out his laptop and start researching rentals.  

“You wound me.”

“You’ll survive somehow, I’m sure.”  He frowns.  “Maybe I should just finally invest in a nice suit.  It’ll only be a matter of time before I’m at Drakon’s as well.”  

“You’d look…..good.  In a suit, that is.”

Ja’far look up at the odd, stammered reply.  All Sinbad does is shift his eyes nervously.  “Ok.  Suit it is, then.”  

“Dark grey,” Sinbad adds.

“Not black?”

“No, too harsh on you.”

“See, you are good for something, after all.”  

Sinbad makes a sad noise, and Ja’far snorts before going back to clicking.

* * *

 

Ja’far had been to a few family weddings, and for the most part, the ceremony was the same.  He had to stand stiffly for far too long, get a little too warm in his suit, talk to too many people, and he did end up having to finish Vittel’s toast.  But Mahad and Parsine looked happy, so that was what mattered.  

The reception, however, ends up much more palatable amongst people closer to his own age rather than elderly family members.  Still, though, it’s a bit much to handle without a break, so Ja’far breaks away on the excuse of getting drinks for his table in order to have a break in conversation.  He sits quietly and takes a few breaths while waiting, and the respite is welcome until he gets company at the bar.

Ja’far looks down at the person who had just bounded up next to him, ordering two Long Island iced teas.  She’s undoubtedly a relative of the bride, given the bright blonde hair, but doesn’t look anywhere  _ close  _ to legal drinking age.  

“Are you really old enough to be ordering that?” he asks out of a sort of social obligation.

“Course I am!” she replies with a grin.  

“Care to prove that?”

She puts petite hands on skinny hips.  “Everyone is old enough to drink at weddings, mister.”  

Before he can reply, she’s grabbed her order and scampered off.  Ja’far rolls his eyes and is about to dismiss her entirely, until he sees the direction she’s heading through the crowd.  He debates pretending nothing is happening, but decides at this point he has an almost familial duty to stop what’s about to happen, and follows after.

“...sure it is, I told them not to put much, so drink it!” is the snatch of a lie he hears as Ja’far approaches the tiny, blonde girl.  Her conversation partner sees him before she does, and dark eyes widen.

“Don’t drink that, Spartos,” Ja’far corrects, trying to hold back a laugh at the horror on the boy’s face.  “Or at least not much of it,” he amends.  Mystras’ brother is strung tight enough already, Ja’far isn’t too keen to scare him off of the first act of disobedience he’s witnessed.  

Blonde hair bobs as the girl turns around, face indignant.  “Stop following me!”

“Well stop lying, then,” Ja’far retaliates, a bit impressed at her confidence despite her size.  “I heard you order, and that’s by no means a light drink, no matter what it tastes like.”  

She frowns petulantly.  “Stop ruining my fun, old man.”  

“Old…” Ja’far mutters.  “It’s the hair, isn’t it?”  He shakes his head dismissively.  “I would love to see Spartos have a bit more fun, I’m just not keen to have to explain him to his father if he has  _ too much  _ fun.”  

“Is your dad here, Spartos?” she demands.

Eyes wide, he shakes his head.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem,” Ja’far explains, “is that he’s here because of his brother, who is here because of my sister, both of whom will push off all responsibility onto  _ me _ , should something go wrong.” 

She frowns.  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“No it doesn’t,” Ja’far sighs, “But I’ll end up doing clean up anyway.  I always do.”  

“Sounds like you need better friends.”

“And you should stop lying about alcohol content,” he retaliates, before turning back to Spartos.  “I can hide you from your dad tonight, but if you can’t pull yourself together tomorrow then it’s on you.”

He nods stiffly

Ja’far looks back to the stranger so intent on corrupting Spartos.  “Seriously, though.  I know it’s not that weird for teenagers to drink at weddings, but how old are you?”

“I’m seventeen!”

“Could have fooled this old man.”

She growls angrily and turns around, pointedly ignoring him.  Ja’far laughs and starts off, taking a mental note to check up on them before it gets too late at night, but on second thought, decides he’d best know who she was, in case he needs to blame someone, and turns back.  “What’s your name?”

“Pisti.  Go ask Parsine if you really need to know I’m not twelve,” she says with a pout.

“Pisti,” Ja’far repeats, eyebrows raised.  He glances over to the corner where he can see Sinbad lurking over a bickering couple, but doesn’t catch his attention.  Instead he walks back to pick up his drink order and return to his table.  It’s not a time to worry about keeping Sinbad’s previous social network intact, and he’s relatively sure Pisti will turn up again in due time, given the way things in his life seem to go, ever since Sinbad arrived.  

* * *

 

Sinbad has spent more time fussing over Ja’far recently, as it’s nearing his graduation and he’s been overworking himself in a fashion that really isn’t healthy.  Not without results, though, if the amount of nonsense before him is any guide to go by.  He makes sure he has Ja’far’s attention, and then looks at the board in front of them in great offense.  “Ja’far, what the hell is  _ that _ .”  

“Uh, part of my thesis?”  Ja’far half says, half asks.  

“That isn’t math,” Sinbad frowns at it.  “There are barely even any numbers.”  

“It is too,” Ja’far pouts, already exhausted from his late night.  

“It doesn’t even look like any of your books or papers,” Sinbad disagrees.  “Aren’t you supposed to be just adding slightly to something you’ve already read?”  

“I guess,” Ja’far shrugs.  “But I didn’t really want to substantiate someone else’s work when I had my own.”  

“And they’ll let you graduate even though you didn’t follow the right procedure?”  Sinbad asks skeptically.

“I have all my units, and if I do it right, they won’t be able to argue,”  Ja’far states.  “And I have done it right, I’m nearly certain.”  

“I wouldn’t be one to correct you, even if you did it wrong.”  Sinbad turns his head sideways, trying to make sense of convoluted graphs, then keeps turning, his feet slowly lifting into the air.

Ja’far laughs, and Sinbad feels vindicated.  If he can’t make Ja’far sleep, he’ll at least keep him from being too stressed.  

“I’ll be fine.  My advisor likes me enough that it’ll slide.”

“That she does.  Most of the staff likes you.  They’re already fighting about who gets you as a research assistant in grad school.”  

“Maybe I should go somewhere else, though,” Ja’far muses.

Sinbad shrugs.  “Don’t know why you would.  You’ve already got one of the best STEM departments here.”  

“I guess.”  Ja’far sighs, and picks up his marker once more.  “Let’s see if I even graduate, first.”

Sinbad rolls his eyes.  As if there’s any doubt of that.  

* * *

 

Ja’far does graduate, and with honors.  He considers taking a break after, but decides that given most of his friends are still in school, and he’s going to want to get a graduate education one day, there’s no time like the present.  He’s a bit nervous at further isolating himself in academia, but discovers that, for the most part, it’s less like school and more like any sort of research program.  

Drakon, already working his way up the ranks in public engineering, urged him to get an apartment further from campus and in the city.  Ja’far had fought him for a while, reluctant to give up walking for a bus commute, but finally had given in when Drakon had found him a nearly-new place with manageable rent.  And it was more fun, living in the city, though Ja’far had had his doubts.  At the very least it puts him around more people who aren’t college students, and that feels good.  

His only major complaint is that his required teaching assistant positions are irritating, but at least he gets paid, and after his first semester he drops as many of those as he can, preferring to work a less demanding and more mindless job at the cafe just down the street from his new apartment.  It pays better, and despite the occasional irritating and entitled middle-aged customer, it’s vastly more entertaining than a hundred undergraduate students emailing him two days before their exam.  He takes night shifts after class, since it gets him home at a reasonable hour and keeps him from overworking at school, and gives himself, at Sinbad’s urging, at least one day a weekend to socialize or sleep.

One Thursday, Sinbad is watching Ja’far bang angrily at a broken cappuccino machine, muttering about shitty managers who don’t do maintenance, when the door to the shop tinkles and he looks up.  His mouth drops open in shock when a very distinct family strolls in.  

Because there, right in front of him, is Aladdin.  This time he appears to have parents attached, and his original ones, at that.  

“Hello, Mr. Ja’far,” the boy says, strolling cheerfully up to the counter.  

Ja’far looks a little surprised, but obviously just assumes the kid read his name tag.  “Hello, what can I get for you?”  He directs this first to Aladdin and then to his parents.  

Aladdin’s face breaks into a grin, and he looks right above Ja’far’s left shoulder.  “Hello, Uncle Sinbad.  I’m glad you found him.”  

Ja’far’s eyes widen, and he does his best to not look directly at Sinbad.  Aladdin’s mother looks long-suffering, and his father is staring intently where his son is looking, but clearly not seeing anything.  “I’m sorry?” Ja’far says.  “Um, do you want hot chocolate, maybe?”  

“He can definitely see me, Ja’far, don’t even try to pretend,” Sinbad sighs.  “What are you doing here, Aladdin?  Not that I’m ungrateful for the help finding Ja’far, but I think you’ve screwed me over enough, even more than I deserved.”  

Aladdin opens his mouth to reply, but Sinbad suddenly seems to realize who else is standing in front of him.  He stomps straight through the counter to stand looming over Solomon, for that is undoubtedly who is standing behind Aladdin.  

“You!”  He points accusingly at the man.  “Why do you get to come back as a person?  You screwed up  _ at least _ as bad as I did!  At least I didn’t leave my pregnant wife and unborn son to clean up my mess!  Your goals drove your best friend insane, you know!”  

“He can’t see you, Uncle Sinbad,” Aladdin supplies helpfully.  

“Though I am trying, for the record,” Solomon agrees hesitantly.  

Ja’far gives up, making sure no one is paying much attention to their discussion before giving his input.  It’s nearly closing, and fortunately no one else is there.  “Sinbad is yelling at you.  He’s mad you got to come back and have a happy family when supposedly you screwed up worse than he did, and he’s been stuck as some ghost thing.  I’m a bit mad about that too, if we’re putting our feelings out there.”  

Sheba smirks.  “Yeah, babe, it really would have been hard to outdo your mistakes.”  

“You don’t remember them any more than I do!”  Solomon protests.  “Don’t blame me!”  

Sinbad pulls at his own hair in confusion.  “I don’t understand,” he whines.  

“I came here about the ghost thing,” Aladdin clarifies.  “It took me a long time to get everyone more or less where they were supposed to be, but I think I got it right this time.”  

“You screwed up worst of all, if it took you this long and this many wars and fallen empires to get it right!”  Sinbad is yelling at Aladdin now.  “You and Alibaba were always on about the cruelties of my capitalist empire but now here you are, in the United States of America, in a damn coffee shop!  Do you not sense the irony?”  

“Uh, Sin,” Ja’far tries to interrupt.  

“I’m not talking about the world,” Aladdin explains.  “I still think getting rid of access to the rukh was the right thing to do.  I’m just talking about all the remnants of our old world.  If there is one thing I learned from my father, it is that leaving remnants lying around is not safe practice.” 

“The right thing--” Sinbad clenches his fists.  “You didn’t have the front-row seat to Nagasaki that I had.  I understand war has casualties, but that wasn’t even necessary, that was because someone needed human test subjects, how different is that from--”

“Sin,” Ja’far slams his hand on the counter to cut him off.  “An argument for another time, perhaps.”  

Sinbad’s face is still pinched in anger, but he stops.  

“I understand, Sinbad.”  Aladdin grows suddenly serious in a way that does not suit his childish face.  “You weren’t meant to see that, or anything else you’ve seen, for that matter.  Part of that was your fault, always trailing around after war trying to stop it, when you knew nothing could be done and all you could do was watch.  

“I didn’t think you were going to make it through Cambodia, but when you did, I knew I had to find a stopgap.  You weren’t going to last long enough for me to fix, if you had to watch much more alone.  So that’s why I made sure you found Ja’far, to give you something else to watch over.  I didn’t plan on him being able to see you, but so much the better.”  

“...to fix?”  Sinbad asks hesitantly, trying to fight off the sudden sliver of hope he seems about to have offered to him.    
Aladdin nods.  “You weren’t supposed to end up like this, and certainly not because of anything you did before.  We failed to account properly for your connection to the rukh, and it left you… halfway, when we tried to permanently remove it from spacetime.”  

“And you just... left me,” Sinbad sounds utterly destitute.  “All alone.  Unable to do anything but watch every person I grew to recognize die, for two thousand, seven hundred, eighty-three years.”  

Ja’far looks at Sinbad in surprise.  He’d always said he didn’t remember exactly how long it had been, but clearly that had been a lie for Ja’far’s comfort.  

Obviously Aladdin is equally disturbed, because Ja’far can see tears pricking at his round eyes.  “I didn’t mean to.  Most of the time I couldn’t even  _ find  _ you.  All I could do was try to pull a few more strings together before I died again.  I was barely seventeen, when I threw this all together.  I wish I had more time to avoid the mistakes I made, but I didn’t, and you know it.  You have suffered most, and the longest, and for that I’m truly sorry.  But I did what had to be done.”  

Sinbad sighs in resignation.  “I guess I try not to dwell on the past.  What’s done is done.”

“I could have saved you first,” Aladdin refuses to let it drop, feeling the need to explain himself.  “But Judar and Hakuei were also stuck, for their connection to the dark rukh.  I had to get Judar first, because he wasn’t strong enough to last without going mad.  Then I chose Hakuei, because she was too kind and honest to survive without breaking.  I left you for last, not because you did anything so punishable, but because I knew you were strong.  I’m sorry, but it was the best decision available.”  

“I’m not…” Sinbad looks too lost to finish his sentence, so Ja’far does it for him.  

“I told you that you weren’t like this out of some divine punishment,” Ja’far says.  

“I can fix it,” Aladdin says with certainty.  “You are nothing like Judar, but somewhat similar to Hakuei.  I’m certain I can figure it out, if you’ll give me a little time.”  

“Will I come back… like this?” Sinbad gestures at himself.  “Or reborn, as the rest of you seem to be?”  

“Most likely as you are, at least this time,” Aladdin answers.  “That’s how the previous two have happened.  It’s more about the impressions you have left across dimensions than some true, interior soul.  And the impressions tend to echo how you perceive yourself.”  

The clock finally hits nine in the evening, and Ja’far sighs in relief at having no more customers come in during this particular conversation.  He goes to flip the sign to closed.  

“I hate to interrupt, but I have to lock up and this seems like a conversation better held somewhere private, anyway,” Ja’far says.  “My apartment is only a few blocks away.  You’re all welcome.”  

“You might as well take advantage of Ja’far being a neat freak,” Sinbad grumbles.  “His place looks ready for company twenty-four-seven.”  

“Only if we won’t be a bother,” Sheba says.

“Of course not,” Ja’far waves his hand in dismissal.  “Clearly this is an important topic to discuss.”  

Ja’far ushers them all out the door, turns the lights off, and locks it behind them.  As he guides them to his apartment block, he can’t help but regard Aladdin’s parents with curiosity.  “You believe him, about all of this?” he asks.

Solomon just nods like it should be obvious, but Sheba seems to sense he wants more of an explanation.

“It’s not every day a three year old starts trying to give you a concrete and very loquacious timeline of a previous world,” she says.  “It took a while, but he kept pointing things out to us.  People he didn’t know, things he shouldn’t understand, and ultimately, we didn’t have any choice.”  

“My father was a pediatric psychiatrist,” Solomon volunteers.  “I wasn’t fond of his methods, so certainly wasn’t going to take my otherwise normal and functional child to a doctor.  Eventually, it just made more sense to listen.  He was usually right, much to our chagrin.”  

“That...sounds like an odd relationship.”  

“It is,” Sheba admits readily, while Solomon frowns at her for it.  “But you get what you get in life.  And that’s what  _ I  _ get for being so bad at taking my birth control on time.”

Solomon flusters, and Aladdin just grumbles, “somehow I’m always an accident.”

“A very loved accident,” she adds, ruffling his hair while he pouts.

Ja’far makes quick work of getting everyone into the elevator and into his apartment, into seats, and offered tea, resisting to sigh with relief once the door is closed.  At least now no one will hear them talking like crazy people.

Aladdin immediately turns to Sinbad, poking and asking questions while Sinbad makes various uncomfortable faces, and everyone else sits in awkward silence.  

“Um, I hate to interrupt, but is there any way to make him visible to your parents?” Ja’far asks.  “I feel like it would make this whole process much less...weird.”  

Aladdin reaches out his hand to grab for the edge of Sinbad’s shirt, frowning in concentration.  Suddenly both Solomon and Sheba start.  

Solomon especially looks surprised, craning his head up to look Sinbad in the eyes.  “You look an awful lot like my father, somehow.”  

Sinbad shudders.  “Please don’t remind me.”  

“Sore subject, sir,” Ja’far adds with an uncomfortable grimace.  

“Oh, sorry.”  

Sinbad suddenly realizes everyone can see him, and immediately swipes for Ja’far, only to look disappointed when his hand still passes through.

“Sorry, Uncle Sinbad,” Aladdin does sound apologetic.  “I haven’t quite figured that out yet.”  

“I thought you said bad people didn’t come back!” Sinbad suddenly changes tack.  “But apparently David is still here!”  

“And nothing like he originally was,” Aladdin states.  “Not a terribly kind man, died in an automobile accident before dad was even a teenager, but nothing like he was as you knew him.”  

“How do you even know that, if you weren’t born yet?”  Sinbad questions.  

Aladdin purses his lips.  “Think of me like the new...god, I guess.”  

“Can we  _ please _ be done with the god-thing!  I tried, Ugo tried, you tried” --he points at Solomon-- “it never works out!  And now  _ you! _ ”  He crosses his arms and pouts.  “Hypocrite.”

Aladdin opens his mouth to reply, but his father beats him to it.  “Ugo?  Ugo just sits in his pajamas and programs all day.”

Sheba laughs, and Aladdin sighs.  

“Yeah!”  Sinbad continues his impassioned tirade.  “You screwed up, then your wife screwed up, then Ugo had to do it!  Then he went nuts, so I--”

“Sinbad, can you maybe let me explain to them some other time, in a less confusing fashion?”  Aladdin interrupts.

“No!  Why do you get to be god?  Not that I want the job again, I learned my lesson, but--”

“I’m not god!  I told you, I die just like the rest of you.  It’s what made this take so damn long!  I don’t want the job either!”

“Language!” Sheba scolds. 

Ja’far drops his head into his hands and starts laughing.  And keeps laughing, unable to stop himself until he nearly has tears leaking from his eyes.  

“Now you made Ja’far cry,” Sinbad complains.

Ja’far waves his hand, attempting to regain his composure.  “I’m sorry.  It’s just….this is all at least a little funny.”

“It’s not funny, Ja’far.  It’s important!”

“I mean, it’s a little funny, you have to admit.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Sinbad pouts, but gives up, and Aladdin gives an almost disconcertingly childish giggle.

“What are  _ you  _ laughing at?” Sinbad accuses.

“Ja’far did usually get the last word in,” Aladdin answers.  

Sinbad nearly protests, then closes his mouth and folds his arms across his chest.  “Whatever.  We’ll talk later, let’s just get on with this.”

Aladdin gives one last amused smile, then continues his prodding.  “I really don’t want this, you know.  I’d have left the world to itself a long time ago, but like I said, final strings to cut.  But I knew I couldn’t make the same mistakes and rule alone, or I’d just repeat the cycle.  This was much slower, but it meant I couldn’t go mad like everyone else.  This should be my last time around before I can just get cycled through normally like everyone else.”  

Sinbad sighs.  “A lot has still gone to shit, you know.”

“I do.  But at least people did it of their own free will.”  Aladdin can’t resist one final jab.  

Sinbad rolls his eyes, but doesn’t get into it.  It’s a discussion he hasn’t had with Ja’far yet, one he still feels terribly guilty for, and he isn’t eager to expose himself before he’s ready.  

Finally satisfied, Aladdin backs up.  “I’m going to have to kill Ja’far,” he declares, and the room that had been previously filled with Ja’far’s attempts to engage Solomon and Sheba in small talk falls silent.  

“I’d really rather you didn’t,” Ja’far himself is the first one to break it, shortly followed by Sinbad yelling angrily about how his existence wasn’t worth Ja’far’s death.  

“I won’t  _ actually  _ kill him!” Aladdin shouts over Sinbad to shut him up.  “Just… really, really close.  It’s the only time you’re whole enough for me to pull into the real world.”  

“There’s got to be another way,” Sinbad says.

“Not if you don’t want to give me another seventy-five years,” Aladdin argues.  “Personally, I don’t think you’ll make it that long.”  

Sinbad winces, knowing that Ja’far’s mortality is a bit of a deadline for his sanity, but isn’t willing to give in just yet.  “I still don’t think it’s worth the risk.”

“I’d really not like you commit homicide,” Solomon adds, obviously trying to hide his confusion and concern.

“I’m not going to commit homicide,” Aladdin argues, frustrated.  “I know what I’m doing.”

“Uh, don’t I get a say in this?” Ja’far asks.  “Because, you know, I’m willing to take the risk; and it is sort of  _ my _ life on the line.”  

Sinbad wants to protest, but ultimately gives up, seeing an argument he won’t be able to win.  “Fine.  But if you die then so help me, I  _ will  _ find a way to kill you again.”  Not that he’d make it for very long himself, if Ja’far died for him.  

Aladdin rubs his fingers along his temples, taking a deep breath to relieve tension.  “You guys can argue about it later.  Unfortunately, I  _ am  _ still a child, and I need to sleep.  It’ll take me a couple weeks to figure out the specifics anyway.”  

Sheba stands up.  “Oh good.  Not that I don’t appreciate your hospitality, Ja’far, but I think we need to talk to our son as well.”  

“Mom--”

“I am still your mother, and you still have things to explain.”

Aladdin grimaces, but relents.  “Alright.”  He turns to Sinbad and Ja’far.  “I’ll be around, it shouldn’t take more than a month.”

After a few rather strange goodbyes, the apartment is quiet once again.  

Sinbad immediately wheels upon Ja’far.  “Ja’far--”

“Nope.”

“I’m serious, Ja’far, I don’t want--”

“Nope,” Ja’far repeats.  “Not negotiable.”  

“Don’t you at least think we should.”

“Nope!” Ja’far shouts, one last time, and slams his bedroom door in Sinbad’s face.  

Sinbad pouts, but accepts when a line has been drawn, and doesn’t intrude.  He’ll try to talk again in the morning.

* * *

 

A tense few weeks follow, but Ja’far stands firm in his resolve, no matter how much Sinbad protests, complains, and worries.  By the end, he can tell that Sinbad is doing it out of principle, and not because he really means it, so Ja’far doesn’t concern himself too much.  

Which doesn’t mean he isn’t terrified, when Aladdin tells him he’s ready.  

He calls in sick to work and class on Friday, knowing he’ll be too stressed to concentrate, even if he isn’t supposed to have to risk his life until evening.  He spends a lot of the day running around the park while Sinbad fusses, and then resists the urge to down several shots to ease his nerves once he finally has to return home.  When Aladdin knocks on his door, he nearly jumps out of his skin.  

In the end, his worries are for nothing, because all he has to do is lie down on the couch and painlessly black out from an ominous glow on a childish hand.

While Ja’far is dying, he sees what he once was.  Not all of it, not nearly, but enough.  There is a lot of blood and a lot of darkness, but there is also sunshine and warm breezes, scampering after the children they seem to collect, and then still scampering after those children when they’re grown.  For most of that time, Sinbad stands out above it all, warmth and light and a path for him to follow.  Until he isn’t, but then it doesn’t matter, because the world ends.  

Ja’far is glad he understands, but it’s nothing he didn’t already know.  

Sinbad does his best not to fly into a panic, but does anyway.  Watching the the color fade from Ja’far’s skin and the breath stop passing through his lips is like seeing all of his worst nightmares and flashbacks come to life in some horrid combination.  

All of a sudden he gasps at what feels like nothing so much as a hand yanking at his spine, a burning pain combined with an awful yanking in his gut.  

Aladdin takes his opportunity, knowing it is limited and perhaps the only one he has.  It’s not gentle, but it hasn’t been any time before this either, and he has more faith in Sinbad surviving the traumatic pressure than most of his previous subjects.  

There is a moment of awful, searing, all-consuming pain -- one that Sinbad is forced to recall from the moment he’d died, burned alive -- and then he’s tottering unsteadily on his feet.  He crumples quickly to his knees, giving a few dry heaves, then tries to force his breath to even out as he slowly remembers how to breath.  Even as he struggles for air, he notices motion out of the corner of his eye, and jerks his head to the couch, where Ja’far is already sitting up, rubbing at his head in confusion.

Finally somewhat oriented, Sinbad shivers at the long-lost feeling of air on his skin, clothes rubbing against it.   _ At least I’m not naked, for once _ .  He inhales deeply and then breathes out, feeling his eyes start to water.  It takes more effort than it should to stand up, but after he does, the first action he takes is to grab violently for Ja’far, wrapping him into the tightest hug he can manage and burying his face in soft hair.  Ja’far, still rather confused himself, feels tears against his neck and holds Sinbad back just as tightly, very much warm and alive and  _ there _ .  

They both hear the door click as Aladdin leaves, but neither turn to look at it or say goodbye.  

Sinbad refuses to let Ja’far out of his grasp for nearly fifteen minutes, sometimes tightening his hold, sometimes letting it loosen, rubbing over his back, neck, shoulders, and hair.  It’s a bit dazed, both of them struggling to orient themselves after rather otherworldly experiences, but Ja’far comes to first.  Enough to start realize that he can smell Sinbad, feel his pulse, get a bit sweaty where warm hands grab him and won’t let go.  

Sinbad takes a bit longer, head whirring with so much stimuli, but finally, he pulls back, tears starting to dry on his face.  “I’ve wanted that for two thousand years,” Sinbad breathes, and tears prick at his eyes again.  

“You’re welcome to it any time you’d like,” Ja’far says.  “I’ve been told I wasn’t hugged enough as a child.”  

Sinbad chokes out a laugh and grabs him again, nuzzling into his shoulder before pulling back to look him in the face.  “I told you not to think about this, because I couldn’t be there.  But I’m here now and god, do I want to kiss you,” he mumbles.  “Can I kiss you?”  

“You should know by now that telling me not to think about something almost guarantees I’ll do it at length,” Ja’far replies with a grin.  “I have a feeling you’re not going to want to stop at a kiss, but yes, you can.”  

Sinbad is on him in a fraction of a second, mouths pressed violently together, and Ja’far has never really noticed how tall the man is until he has to tip his face up to meet him.  It is messy and painful in its desperation, at first, but it’s still the best kiss Ja’far has ever had.  He does his best to keep up with Sinbad’s frantic force, and tilts his head farther to the side to run his tongue along Sinbad’s bottom lip and bite softly.  

A surprised noise comes from Sinbad’s throat, and he quickly calms as he realizes Ja’far is still there and participating.  Hands previously frozen at his sides come up around the back of Ja’far’s neck, and he softens the kiss, gently pressing forward and back as Ja’far follows his movements.  Eventually the air he can get through his nose isn’t enough, and he pulls back to rest his head on Ja’far’s shoulder.  

“Thanks,” he says quietly.  

Ja’far doesn’t reply but tugs on his ponytail to tip his head back up, and pushes their lips together again.  It is still gentle, but insistent, and the way Sinbad instinctively digs his fingers into his shoulders makes Ja’far’s chest ache.  He opens his mouth slightly and presses harder against Sinbad, hoping he gets the hint.  He doesn’t, and Ja’far lets out a small noise of frustration before pushing the flat of his tongue against Sinbad’s lips.  

That, Sinbad does seem to pick up on, and his eyes briefly flutter open in surprise before shutting once more.  His hands drift from Ja’far’s neck to his shoulder blades, and he pulls him in closer before softly pressing his tongue back against Ja’far’s.  Ja’far grabs Sinbad’s hips and pulls their bodies flush together, trying to synchronize the movements of their heads and mouths.  

It is surprisingly gentle and tentative, and not what Ja’far had expected from Sinbad at all.  There is nothing aggressive in the contact, only a sort of practiced reciprocation, lips and tongues sliding together.  Ja’far is just glad it is tactful, and there aren’t any tongues being shoved in his mouth.  

After a while, Ja’far’s neck gets stiff and the backs of his knees start hurting, but Sinbad has his arms firmly locked around his waist and appears to have no intention of stopping, so Ja’far does his best to push him over onto the couch.  Once he has Sinbad seated on the cushions, Ja’far climbs into his lap, putting their faces more at eye level, and presses their mouths together again.    

They resume slightly slimy kisses, and eventually, after a few sharper nips of his teeth, Ja’far feels Sinbad hardening in his pants, and goes to unzip them before large hands stop his.  

“I don’t want to, I just want to stay like this,” Sinbad says.

Ja’far looks at him skeptically.  “You very much want to, I can feel it right there.  I never pegged you as a hesitant person, but you’ve been so this whole time.”  

Sinbad just shakes his head.  “My damn overactive sex drive wants to, but  _ I  _ don’t.”  He bats Ja’far’s hands away and just brings him in close again.  “I’m not this careful at all, usually.  It’s just that we always used to do that, fuck each other senseless so we could try and get rid of our feelings instead of just having them together.  I’m not going to make that mistake again.”  

Ja’far smiles gently at him, now that he understands.  “You’re wrong, you know.”  

Sinbad was leaning in to kiss him again, but stops and looks at him in confusion.  

“You’re wrong.  We stayed up a lot of nights together, sleep-deprived and just trying to keep everything in one piece.  And there were plenty of quiet mornings with open windows and damp breezes making our skin stick together overnight.”  Ja’far pets out the furrow in Sinbad’s brow.  “We had a lot of times together that were much more than desperate sex.”  

Sinbad’s eyes widen dramatically and he runs his hands roughly over Ja’far’s face.  “You remember,” he gasps.  

“Not all of it,” Ja’far corrects.  “Not all of the details you do, but I remember flashes, and I remember the important things.”  He tucks his hands around the back of Sinbad’s neck.  “I loved you, Sin.  I never said it, but I loved you for almost all of my life.”  

The look in Sinbad’s eyes is joy and despair and an intensity Ja’far has never seen on anyone before.  Suddenly, purple hair is tucked under his chin and Sinbad is sobbing into his chest, grabbing onto his slim shoulders like he’d drown without them.  

Ja’far is, frankly, shocked.  He may not have a complete record, but he’s pretty sure he can count the number of times he has seen Sinbad not simply shed a few tears, but  _ truly cry _ , on one hand, in two lives combined.  But in the last hour it’s seemed like he can’t stop for more than ten minutes at a time, and now he’s practically heaving against Ja’far with the force of it. 

All Ja’far can do is rub circles over his back and pet his hair.  “Sin, why are you crying?  It’s alright, I’m right here.  I still love you just the same as I did before.”  

If possible, Sinbad just starts crying harder, his noises coming out in silent hisses of air and gasping hiccups, soaking Ja’far’s shirt.  Eventually, Ja’far can’t help but join him, tears trailing silently down his cheeks and his nose running.  If it’s for himself now, finally getting to touch his closest friend of over a decade, or himself then, who never got to tell Sinbad he loved him or hold him while he cried, he doesn’t know, nor does it really matter.  

After an indeterminable amount of time, Sinbad’s sobbing slows and finally stops.  He slumps against Ja’far, exhausted and panting for air.  Ja’far lets a few more tears drip slowly into Sinbad’s hair, and then he calms as well.  

“I’m sorry,” Sinbad mumbles against his shirt.

“For what?” Ja’far is still rubbing soothingly over the broad back of the man pressed against him, but his voice comes out thick and sticky in his throat.   

“For getting tears and snot all over your shirt.  For crying when I should have been happy.  I am happy, you know, despite all that.”  

“It’s alright,” Ja’far replies.  “I’m glad I got to hold you through it.  You’ve had a lot in life worth crying for, but I’d never seen you do so.”  

“So have you,” Sinbad points out.

“Yes, but I cried about it a long time ago, in both instances,” Ja’far answers.  “You never did.  Sure you sniffled occasionally, but you never cried the way you needed to.  Not about your parents, not about your imprisonment, not about your home country leveled to the ground, not about voices in your head.  And certainly not about two thousand years all by yourself.”  

Sinbad lets out a ragged sigh against his shoulder.  “I’d do it again right now, if I thought I could.  But I don’t have anything left.”  

“Thank you,” Ja’far says, completely out of context.  

“Why?” Sinbad asks, still refusing to raise his face.  

“For letting me know you were human all along,” Ja’far replies.  “And for letting me be there for you.  That’s what I remember most, from before: how much I owed you.  I can pay it back, this way.”  

“You owe me nothing,” Sinbad reiterates with a chuckle.  “Though it never seems to work out feeling that way, does it?”  

Ja’far nudges Sinbad’s head up high enough to kiss his forehead, nosing into his hairline.  “Let’s start with a clean slate, then.  We owe each other nothing, but I’d be honored if you ever want to cover my shirt in snot and tears again.  I don’t imagine one gets out a couple millennia in one night.”  

Sinbad tucks his chin over Ja’far’s shoulder, daring to surface.  “That’s good, as I suspect I’m not done.”  He pauses for a significant amount of time.  “I love you, Ja’far,” he finally manages to utter.  “In every way I’ve ever known you, and more than anything else.  Even when everything crumbled, you were still there.”  

“I know,” Ja’far says quietly.  “Though it is nice to hear, this time around.”  He squeezes tight and holds Sinbad close, where they stay until Sinbad starts shifting with how Ja’far is cutting the blood flow in his legs, making them tingle.  

“Oh, sorry,” Ja’far rolls off of him with a yawn, flopping over sideways onto the couch cushions.  “I think I was dozing off.”  

Sinbad turns and flops over on top of Ja’far in turn, head to his chest.  “That’s ok, I’m exhausted.”  He wraps his arms around Ja’far’s waist, shoving them underneath his back against the cushions.  “Goodnight.”  

Ja’far wriggles in protest.  “Get off, you’re too heavy to sleep under.”  Sinbad is clearly trying to hold back a grin and pretend he is asleep.  “Off, Sin.  I want to brush my teeth and sleep in something softer than denim.”  When Sinbad still doesn’t respond, Ja’far frees one leg and starts digging his knee into Sinbad’s hip rather painfully.  

“Ow,” Sinbad groans, and finally deigns to sit up.  “Oh well, you’re too bony to make a good pillow, anyway.”  

Ja’far smacks him lightly as he wiggles free.  “And you’re heavy enough that you were going to suffocate me.  Come on, you’ll feel better if you wash your face, and I think I have sweatpants that are big enough to fit you.”  

Sinbad grumbles about all his weight being muscle, but allows Ja’far to drag him to the bathroom.  As soon as he catches sight of his reddened, puffy eyes and blotchy face in the mirror, he frowns in distaste.  “Crying is not a good look on me.”  

“It’s not a good look on anyone.”  Ja’far hands Sinbad a spare washcloth.  “But you feel better now, right?”  

Sinbad sighs and lets his shoulders drop.  “Yes, I do.  A lot better.”  He wets the cloth and promptly buries his face in it.  It had seemed necessary at the moment, but he doesn’t really like Ja’far, or anyone, seeing him that vulnerable.  “Still sorry you had to see that,” he mumbles into the towel.  

Ja’far tugs on his ponytail.  “Don’t be.  And here’s an extra toothbrush.”  

Sinbad bends the plastic brush between his hands curiously as Ja’far washes his own face.  “You guys really have no idea how much plastic changed society.  I’ve never personally touched it before.”  

“I can certainly imagine,” Ja’far says.  “I know you  _ know  _ about most of the stuff happening right now, but you might be in for a bit of a culture shock, having to actually experience it.”  

“Probably,” Sinbad agrees.  “Machine-woven clothes are already so much softer than what we were ever able to produce.”  He imitates Ja’far and puts toothpaste onto his brush, sticking it into his mouth and making a disgusted face.  “Nor do I really want to know what horrible things have to happen to this stuff to make it taste so strongly.”  

“It’s just minty,” Ja’far mumbles around his toothbrush.  

“No one just puts pure mint extract into their mouth,” Sinbad complains, but goes about brushing his teeth anyway.  

Once they’re finished, Ja’far goes to the kitchen and gets a glass of water, holding it out to Sinbad.  “Drink this.”

Sinbad frowns at it.  “I’m fine.”  

“You’re not.  You have to be hydrated now.  Drink it.”

He complies, though combined with all his other sensory overload, it really only makes him feel more weird.  

“Do you need food?”

“Stop fussing.  I’m not hungry or thirsty, just tired.”

Ja’far frowns, squinting at his face.  “You sure?”

“I think if I ate right now, I’d just puke.”  

Seeing the poorly concealed stress on his face, Ja’far softens.  “Alright.  I am going to make you eat in the morning, though.”  

Sinbad nods, and Ja’far turns to dig through his drawers until he finds the baggiest sweatpants he has, and tosses them over.  “I’ll try to find a big shirt, just give me a minute.”  

“Nah, don’t need it,” Sinbad dismisses.  “I sleep naked half the time anyway, or I just get all hot and sweaty and end up taking my shirt off.”  

“One of  _ those  _ people,” Ja’far grumbles as he turns back around to his dresser.  “I’m always freezing.”  He briefly considers going into the bathroom to change, but it’s not as if Sinbad hasn’t seen him naked thousands of times already, so he yanks flannel pants and a sweatshirt out of his drawers, finally removing stiff denim jeans and his starched shirt with a sigh of relief before tossing them into his laundry hamper.  Ja’far quickly pulls on his loose pajamas and wriggles in them happily, warm and soft and baggy.  

When he turns back around, Sinbad is standing there with his clothes in a wad, shirtless.  Ja’far’s eyes immediately scan him from the groin up, very much liking what he sees.  When he reaches Sinbad’s face, he catches himself and flushes.  “Sorry.”  

“It’s alright,” Sinbad laughs.  “It’s been a long, long time since you’ve looked at me like that, but I certainly don’t mind.”  

“Well, I’d never actually seen you without a shirt on before,” Ja’far says as he grabs the ball of clothes from Sinbad, folding them quickly and putting them on the kitchen table.  It’s not like he has another set, after all, so he’ll have to wear them tomorrow.  

Sinbad frowns.  “Sure you have.”  

“I haven’t,” Ja’far insists.  “You’ve told me a lot of stories, but whenever you decided upon a wardrobe change it just sort of… happened.”  

“Oh,” Sinbad says thoughtfully.  “Well, sorry, I guess.”  

“For what?”

“Depriving you of my beauty,” Sinbad says cheekily, hands on his hips.  “Don’t pretend you don’t like what you see.”  

Ja’far just rolls his eyes.  

“In all seriousness though, I am sorry,” Sinbad continues.  “Now that I think of it, that was a very unfair exchange, just in privacy invasion, if nothing else.”  

“It’s alright.  lt wasn’t on purpose, and it probably would have just made me frustrated.”  Ja’far puts his hands on Sinbad’s shoulders and presses a kiss to his lips, taking the opportunity to run his hands down his chest and abs, landing on his hips.  “I am going to do  _ so _ much more with you than kiss and cry, tomorrow,” Ja’far promises.  

Sinbad grins lasciviously at him.  “Hmm.  Ja’far, the things I know about you that you don’t even know about yourself.”  

“You better make good on those words and show me, then,” Ja’far tries to give him an equally leery look back, but probably doesn’t succeed, as his face isn’t really meant for such expressions.  “Now come on, bed, I’m tired.”  

Ja’far’s full-sized bed has always felt big to him; it’s certainly more space than he needs, since he prefers to sleep curled up on one side, but now he is reconsidering that assumption.  Sinbad is not a small man, and if what he says is true, he is a very… active sleeper.  

“I’m going to need a bigger bed,” Ja’far mutters.  

Sinbad dismisses him.  “It’s fine, just means I get to cuddle you.”  

Ja’far shakes his head.  “I can’t fall asleep with people touching me.  Sleeping next to someone is hard.”  

“Really?  I mean, you’ve ‘slept’ with people, you’ve never like.... cuddled, after, and just fallen asleep?”  Sinbad sounds both put out and confused.  

“No, I leave,” Ja’far says.  “I would have thought you’d noticed.”  

“Oh.”  Sinbad thinks back on it.  “I guess you’re right.  Well, I’ll try not to roll all over you at night, but I make no promises.  Or I can sleep on the couch?”  

“I’m definitely not banishing you to the couch,” Ja’far says with certainty.  “I’ll be fine, it’s about time I learned to be comfortable sleeping next to someone, anyway.”  He pulls back the covers and climbs in, rolling onto his side with a sigh.  

Sinbad hasn’t moved from the edge of the bed, face still perplexed.  “Why don’t you like people sleeping with you?”

“I don’t know,” Ja’far shrugs.  “Safety?  Trust issues?  I’ve never been good at giving or receiving affection, or maybe it’s just distracting when I’m trying to fall asleep.”  

Sinbad folds his arms stubbornly across his chest.  “You never even tried, before.  You actually avoided forming any relationships that would even necessitate that, now that I think about it.  You’re twenty three and you’ve barely even been on a  _ date _ ,” Sinbad accuses.  “You were so tricky about it too!  Fooling me into thinking you were having normal relationships just because you were having sex.”  

Ja’far sighs.  “Can you come to this realization tomorrow?” he asks pointlessly.  

“No,” Sinbad plants his feet.  “It was because of me, wasn’t it?  I told you not to do that, Ja’far.  I shouldn’t even be here right now, and you would have had to die alone one day, when you’d be happier with a family.”  

“Of course it was because of you!  Did you think I just decided I loved you on the spur of the moment, earlier?  It didn’t matter what you told me, I was practically doomed from the start.  I would have said something years ago, but it would have made you mad, and then you might have  _ left _ , under pretense of me having a normal life.  Because you couldn’t understand; it’s not like I could properly love anyone else when I already loved you.”  Sinbad opens his mouth to speak, but Ja’far keeps talking.  “Plus, what would that have done to  _ you _ , to see me happy with someone else?”  

“I would have been fine, like I told you a dozen times,” Sinbad answers, a practiced smile tilting his lips.  

Ja’far points at him accusatorially.  “See!  You always do that.  You’re still mad at me, and you’re upset at the thought of it, but you just put that stupid little smile on.  Nothing says ‘not fine’ like that damn face you make.”  

“Fine.”  Sinbad lets his expression fall back into frustration.  “But I had my chance to live, you haven’t; and you should have prioritized that, and at least given it a try.”  

“All that would have done was make three people miserable: you, me, and whatever poor fool got stuck between us,” Ja’far argues.  “It’s not something I could rationally prioritize.  I couldn’t help how I felt!”  

Sinbad opens his mouth to retaliate, and Ja’far just growls in frustration.  “You don’t get to tell me who I love!  I would have been happier with you as a ghost until the day I died than pretending I cared for someone else as much as I did you.  Now get in the fucking bed, Sin.”  

Ja’far rolls over to face the wall, and Sinbad shuffles obediently into the bed next to him.  “Sorry, Ja’far,” he says quietly.  “I thought I was doing what was best for you, but that wasn’t really for me to decide.”  

“It’s alright,” Ja’far mumbles.  “I shouldn’t have yelled; you just wanted me to have a good life.”  

Sinbad wriggles until he is next to Ja’far’s crumpled form, and pushes his face between his shoulder blades.  When Ja’far doesn’t protest, he presses closer and wraps an arm around his waist.  “It all worked out in the end, I guess,” Sinbad says, muffled into Ja’far’s shirt.  

Ja’far grabs the hand slung over his waist.  “Yeah, it did.  I’m really glad you’re here, Sin.  Know that, even when I yell at you.”  

“I’m used to you yelling at me.  And I’m glad I’m here too,” Sinbad smiles into soft cotton.  He kisses Ja’far’s back and then rolls away from him to give him space.  “Goodnight.”  

“‘Night,” Ja’far mumbles sleepily.  He thinks it should be impossible to sleep, but apparently the slight physical trauma and emotional exhaustion do wonders.  Sinbad’s breaths deepen and slow in a way Ja’far has never heard before, and it’s oddly reassuring.  Somewhere in the middle of that realization, he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOW I GET TO THE FUN PART I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TOOK ME LONG ENOUGH. also fair warning that this is very nsfw.

Sinbad has woken with a headache for a lot of reasons, but never one from crying.  His eyes feel dry and puffy, and his throat hurts, presumably from the force of his sobbing.  It takes him a few moments to remember where he is, bleary from the first real night of sleep he has had in a very, very long time.  

As soon as he does realize his location, Sinbad rolls over quickly, struck by the irrational fear that Ja’far won’t be there anymore, as if he could somehow disappear while he wasn’t looking.  This fear spikes momentarily when he doesn’t immediately see Ja’far next to him, then melts away into affection when Sinbad sees a small lump in the blankets.  The only visible part of Ja’far is a little tuft of white hair, the rest of his head and body completely buried in fluffy comforter.  

Sidling up to the lump, Sinbad tries to curl himself around Ja’far, who either has a subconscious desire to suffocate himself, or got cold overnight.  Most likely the latter, since he is curled into a ball underneath his covering.  He tries to be careful, as it’s still a while before sunrise and he wants to let Ja’far sleep, but he stirs as Sinbad wraps an arm around him, and a muffled greeting is heard through the blankets.  

Sinbad peels the comforter off of Ja’far’s head, and is met with sleepy blinking.  “How can you breathe under there?” he asks.  

“Practice,” Ja’far slurs out, still fighting to wake.  “Better than being cold.”  He snuggles sleepily back into Sinbad.  “I need to get better at sleeping close to people.  You run like a furnace.”  

Sinbad nudges his own warm feet against Ja’far’s chilled ones, and rubs his hands over Ja’far’s shoulders, trying to create warmth through friction.  “Glad to be of service.”  

After a few minutes of drowsiness, Ja’far rolls over to face Sinbad, looking at him intently, a question on his lips.  

“Sin, what were you doing in Cambodia?”  That had not been anything Sinbad expected Ja’far to ask, and he sounds worried.  “And when were you there?  It had to have been fairly recently, if it was soon before I was born.”  

Sinbad rolls onto his back so he doesn’t have to look at Ja’far.  “The second half of the seventies,” he mutters.  “I was watching a genocide, as you seem to have guessed.”  

“...Why?”  Ja’far sounds quite upset.  

“Well, I was in Vietnam, right before that.  It wasn’t far to travel, and I sort of just followed the military movements,” Sinbad answers.  

“No, why were you voluntarily watching a genocide you couldn’t stop?”  He is less upset now, more angry.  

“I don’t know, Ja’far.  Most of them were so young; starved, enslaved, brainwashed and given rifles that they then turned on their own families, because that’s what they were told.”  He takes a deep breath.  “No one was doing anything, and people who wanted to couldn’t.  The least I could do was watch, so someone knew what happened, even if I couldn’t help.”  

Ja’far grabs at Sinbad’s shoulder, urging him to roll over and face him.  Sinbad does so reluctantly, eyes cold and distant.  Ja’far runs a finger over his jaw, and Sinbad’s eyes focus again as he does.  Clearly, Ja’far expects a better explanation.   

“I followed a family, mostly, for six years,” he continues shakily.  “Good parents with two daughters and a son between them.  They were evacuated one day, the entire city was, and marched miles and miles into nowhere to live in a shack and farm rice, given half a cup a day to live on themselves.”

Sinbad pauses and lets his voice fall flat.  “The father was executed first, on account of being a doctor, and that was the kindest thing to happen.  The mother was killed a few weeks later, bludgeoned to death with an axe and thrown into a muddy ditch with hundreds of other rotting bodies.  The children were separated, then.  The oldest daughter was fifteen, and was taken into the military as a prostitute where she eventually died of physical abuse and starvation.  The son and his younger sister were marched farther inland, to a work camp for children.  

“They were skin and bones, all of them.  Screaming in the night at how starvation pained them, going mad and eating dirt, the housing barracks always smelled of dysentery and desperation.  After a year, the youngest girl was also taken as a worker and prostitute.  She was eight.  After another year, they handed the boy a gun, put him in a platoon of even more children with guns, and sent them off to battle.  They were a distraction, a suicide mission, small fry to disorganize the opposing forces so the real soldiers could come through.”  

Sinbad takes a shuddering breath and Ja’far grabs his hand to hold it between his own.  

“In the disorder, only he and three others survived, with no directions left on where to go.  They traveled for a day along a track built for military caravans, and he found his sister lying on the road, crushed under a sixty pound sack of rice she’d been carrying for a nearby encampment.  She was dying, barely recognizable, and he shot her in the head.  He went into the jungle after that, instead of seeking command centers.  His fellow survivors fell prey to fever and Vietnamese mines.  He nearly died of dehydration before stumbling across the Laotian border into a refugee camp at the age of fourteen.”

“Is he… alright now?”  Ja’far asks hesitantly, not quite knowing what to make of the whole thing.  

“I have no idea.  That’s where Aladdin found me, and all but commanded me to leave.  I refused, but then he said he knew where to find you.  Or your parents, at least.  Though I suppose your mother wasn’t much older than you, the first time I met you.”

“You shouldn’t have done that, Sin,” Ja’far says in as serious a voice as he can muster.

“Left him?  I know, I never knew what happened and I still hate that,” Sinbad’s voice grows tight.  

“No!” Ja’far grabs his hand tight.  “You should never have been there in the first place!  What could you have done except make yourself miserable?”  

Sinbad is surprised at the vehemence in Ja’far’s tone.  “I… They weren’t alone.  I couldn’t do anything, but at least they weren’t alone, even if no one knew.  They deserved to have someone remember.”  

“But what about  _ you _ ?” Ja’far insists.  

“Me?”  Sinbad frowns.  “I wasn’t the one dying, though the more times I watched, the more I wished I could just take their place.  Never so much as then, though.  I just wanted it to stop.”  

Ja’far looks at him in horror.  “You did that multiple times,” he states, not even a hint of a question in his tone.  He already knows what Sinbad would say.  “Sin,  _ why _ ?  There are so many other things to see in the world.  How many people did you watch suffer like that?”  

Only then does Sinbad realize he has told Ja’far very little of the centuries he spent alone.  It was not that he’d intended to hide it, just that he’d been trying to ignore it, absorbed in Ja’far’s everyday life.  “I don’t know what to tell you, other than I just felt I had to do it.  And I saw plenty of other things!  But it didn’t matter where I went, war always cropped back up even in the most beautiful places, and I’d find someone else who needed watching, and I’d do it all over again.  I lost count of how many the first time I fell asleep, about fifteen hundred years ago.”  

Tears start leaking from Ja’far’s eyes, and Sinbad panics.  “Don’t cry!  That was the last one before I got to watch over you, and it wasn’t exactly a well-paved road you walked, but I got to see you do normal kid things!”  

Ja’far slaps a hand over Sinbad’s mouth and then grabs him, wedging as many limbs around his body as he can, tucking his head against Sinbad’s chest.  

“Ja’far?” Sinbad asks tentatively.

“Don’t talk anymore,” Ja’far mumbles against his chest.  “Not if you’re going to act like it was alright to do that to yourself.”  

Sinbad doesn’t understand why this matters so much to Ja’far, but decides silence is probably the best course of action, and so hugs Ja’far against his chest and lets the room fall quiet.

“Can I ask something of you?” Ja’far speaks after a while.  

“Anything I can give,” Sinbad replies.  

Ja’far pinches his face at how cheesy that sounds.  “Will you promise not to try to save the world this time?  No one can, and I didn’t like the end result of you attempting it, last time.”  

“I promise,” Sinbad says quietly.  “Though that’s not a promise to not try to make as many things better as I can.”  

“I’ll hold you to that,” Ja’far says.  “At least I know you won’t be running for political office.  I can get you good fake papers, but nothing that good.”  

“I didn’t even think of that,” Sinbad realizes.  

“Identity, birth certificates, a cover story for how you got here, let alone why you’re living with me….  God, I don’t even know how I’m going to deal if you ever need a social security number,” Ja’far continues muttering into his chest.  “I’m going to punch that kid in the face, next time I see him.”  

“Aladdin?  Don’t punch him, you won’t look very good assaulting a small child,” Sinbad laughs.  “And he doesn’t deserve it, anyway; he did fix me, in the end.”  

“I’m not sure he qualifies as a child,” Ja’far grumbles.  “And he very much does, for letting you do that to yourself for god knows how long, and then leaving me with the logistical mess of a person appearing out of thin air.”  

“But he most definitely  _ was  _ a child when he decided to take away the rukh.  And a parentless one, at that, with the entire world riding upon his shoulders.  He did what he could,” Sinbad defends, possessing more than a little empathy for kids with too much riding on their decisions.  

“I don’t care,” Ja’far grouches.  “He knew what you were doing and let you keep hurting yourself, even though he was the only one who could have stopped you.” 

Sinbad smiles guiltily.  “Well, I did give him quite a bit of trouble and concern before, maybe he was just letting me learn a lesson.  Or holding a grudge.  I wouldn’t blame him for either.”  

“No one can hold a grudge for two thousand years,” Ja’far grumbles.  

“Stop psychoanalyzing me and being bitter,” he ruffles messily over the hair on the back of Ja’far’s head.   “Just be glad I’m here for a little, will you?”  

Ja’far huffs in irritation, but disengages himself from Sinbad.  “You’re right.”  He pops his neck, looks at Sinbad, and grins.  “Very here and very  _ naked _ .”  

Sinbad looks down.  “Oh, sorry about that, it happens sometimes. I thought I wouldn’t do it, since I didn’t have a shirt in the first place, but I guess I lost my pa-”  

He is interrupted as Ja’far pushes him onto his back and straddles his waist, planting his hands on either side of his head.  “Definitely no apology needed.”  

Sinbad makes a small noise of surprise.  “Ja’far?  You really shouldn’t--”  

Ja’far cuts Sinbad off with a kiss, irritated at how damnably  _ careful  _ he is trying to be, when all his own doubts vanished years ago.  He scoots back so his groin is in contact with Sinbad’s, and rolls against him suggestively, biting down on the tip of the tongue he has managed to suck into his mouth, slowly reaching for Sinbad’s dick.

“Wait, Ja’far.”  Sinbad pulls back and calls.  “Wait!” 

Ja’far looks up at him in annoyance.  “Why?  You want it, I know you do, and I  _ really _ want it.”  

“Don’t you think… shouldn’t we go slower, or something?”  Sinbad has a hard time putting words to his concern.  

“For what?”  Ja’far asks skeptically.  “Make sure we’re really dedicated to each other before we throw sex in the equation?  I think we solved that conundrum a decade and two lifetimes ago.”  He looks down at Sinbad, and softens slightly.  “If it really makes you uncomfortable, I’ll just go take a cold shower.  But quite honestly, I plan on spending the rest of my life with you, so I see no reason to wait.”  

“You mean that?”  Sinbad’s eyes go wide.  

Ja’far scrunches his brow in confusion.  “The shower or the spending my life with you?”  

“The second one,” Sinbad clarifies.

“Of course, I thought that was obvious,” Ja’far answers.  “Why, were you planning on going somewhere else?”  The first hint of hesitation Sinbad has observed leaks into Ja’far’s countenance.  

“No,” Sinbad says quickly.  “I just thought… I don’t know.  You’re right, I’m not going anywhere.  I just hadn’t thought of it like that.”  

Ja’far sighs.  “I’m both pleased and annoyed that you’re not only being cautious but are willing to tell me so.  But please just let go and enjoy yourself.  It’s going to be more awkward to ‘take it slow’ than it is to just fuck each other hard and get it out of our systems.”  

Sinbad groans as Ja’far rolls against him again, hardening against his will against Ja’far’s soft flannel pants.  “I just don’t want to be like I was before, far too arrogant and physical to doubt myself, when I should have.”  Ja’far sucks on his neck and Sinbad bites his lip.  “And I know you’re angry and upset, I don’t want to go from talking about genocide to--”  

“Sin!”  Ja’far almost yells in his frustration.  “ _ Please _ stop thinking!  Which is a phrase I never thought I’d say to you, but do it anyway.  You’re terribly attractive, I’m horny, I love you, and I just want you to remember you’re a body and a person, and god forbid, have some fun.  I liked you even when you were an ass, damn me, so even if you repeat history, I’ll still be here, anyway.”  

Sinbad looks at Ja’far in a sort of dazed shock.  “You never said as much before.”  

“Probably because I never  _ had  _ to, seeing as you just did as you pleased instead of thinking too hard about everything under the sun.”  Ja’far puts his hands on either side of Sinbad’s face and squeezes his cheeks slightly.  “Please, for half an hour, just forget anything but being warm and safe in a soft bed with someone who loves you.”  

“I’ll try.  But you don’t have to, Ja’far.  I’m fine just getting up and going to the store, especially considering you probably have a lot to think through…”

Ja’far throws his hands into the air in disbelief, and wriggles down as quickly as he can to suck Sinbad’s half-hard erection into his mouth before he can protest.  

Sinbad’s hips twitch upwards involuntarily, and he inhales sharply.  A protest is on his lips, but Ja’far digs his nails into his thighs, and starts bobbing up and down quickly, trying to roll his tongue along the sensitive head whenever it passes his lips.  

“Ja’far…” Sinbad ekes out.  “You don’t…”  

Apparently Sinbad is still thinking, and Ja’far isn’t satisfied.  He pulls off for a moment to take a deep breath and get his neck into the best angle, then dives down with the intent of getting Sinbad as far down his throat as he can manage, even if he doesn’t have much practice.  It is a slightly painful struggle, and he gags a few times around the size, tears stinging in his eyes, but eventually he can feel his throat unwillingly stretched around Sinbad’s girth, lips less than an inch from his base.  

Sinbad gasps and shudders with the effort of staying still, and Ja’far breathes through his nose and tries to stay there as long as he can, swallowing around the cock in his mouth in favor of moving up and down and causing more gagging.  Eventually the back of his throat starts aching unbearably and he runs short on air, so pulls up with a heave for oxygen.  

“Any questions?” he pants and raises his eyebrows at Sinbad.  

Sinbad shakes his head and swallows noticeably.  

“Good.”  Ja’far sucks the head back into his mouth again, though his throat feels too sensitive to attempt anything more than he’s already done.  His hands and tongue seem good enough for Sinbad, who starts thrusting his hips slightly into his grasp, breathing escalating.  

It’s barely been five minutes when Sinbad starts whimpering.  “Stop, Ja’far, or I’ll…” 

Ja’far does relent to this request, and pulls off with a pop.  Perspiration is starting to bead on Sinbad’s face, and he’s frowning in concentration.  Ja’far pets softly over his hips, letting him know he’s listening and has stopped for now.  

“I’m sorry,” Sinbad breathes after recovering for a few moments.  “I used to be so good at this, but it’s been so long and I’ve missed you so much that I’m not going to be able to last for very long.”  

“It’s alright,” Ja’far reassures.  “I just want to feel your size, and then you can do whatever you want and finish me off some other way.”  

Sinbad groans helplessly at the idea of being inside Ja’far again, but eventually gets himself under control and shakes his head.  “I might be able to last longer, if it’s just you inside and nothing else.”  

Ja’far tilts his head and looks at him appraisingly.  “Are you sure?  Like you said, it’s been a long time, in a strange way.”  

Sinbad nods.  “Even if it’s uncomfortable, I…” he contemplates whether to admit it, but decides there is no use hiding anything from Ja’far any longer.  “I like it when it hurts.”  

“I don’t think that will be the case, but good to know, for future reference.”  Ja’far crawls up and leans over Sinbad to look him in the eyes.  “I’ll try, as long as I can still get you inside me when we come back this evening.”  

Sinbad swallows.  “If… if you want.  I don’t know how long I’ll be able to hold out for, though.  I don’t want to disappoint you.”  

“You won’t,” Ja’far states definitively.  “You can’t possibly disappoint me when just you being here is enough.  And you’ll have to go slow for me later, anyway; you’re big and I don’t know if I can fit you comfortably.”  

The tension and uncertainty finally leeches out of Sinbad, and he relaxes slightly, closing his eyes.  He grabs Ja’far’s ass and squeezes, pushing his hips down so their erections can rub together, Ja’far’s poorly disguised by his baggy pants.  

Suddenly, Sinbad’s lips draw down into a slight frown, and he chuckles awkwardly.  “This is totally going to ruin the flow, but can I use the bathroom first?”  

Ja’far laughs and rolls off of him.  “Probably a wise decision. Take, uh, as long as you need.  I’m not going anywhere.”  

Sinbad scampers off to the bathroom to complete the slightly embarrassing task of getting himself as empty and clean as he can on such short notice.  When he is done and opens the bathroom door again, he gulps audibly, all his blood shooting south.  

Ja’far is on the bed much as Sinbad left him, but he’s pushed his pants down over his hips and has his own dick in his hand, stroking softly.  Sinbad grins and jumps onto the bed, startling Ja’far and sending them sprawling painfully together.  Ja’far protests angrily, and Sinbad sucks on his shoulder where his face happens to have landed.  

“Sin, don’t do that, you’ve already given me enough bruises by tackling me.”  

“Then don’t look so attractive.  And don’t start without me,” Sinbad retaliates.  

Ja’far rolls them over so he can sit on Sinbad’s hips, and then hesitates.  “I don’t… I’m not as experienced as I was before.  I’m not sure I can do this right, at least not on the first try.”  

“Don’t worry, I can show you,” Sinbad reassures.  “Though, honestly, I don’t think it’s going to take much more than you just sitting there and looking pretty, this time, which you’re already doing.”  

Ja’far bites his lip and reaches for the lube he’d already brought out and set on the nightstand, then scoots off of Sinbad.  He grabs Sinbad’s legs and pulls them apart, then bends down to lick a stripe up Sinbad’s dick, pleased with the way it makes his slightly limp cock jerk.  He sucks the head into his mouth and swirls it around for a while, stroking Sinbad’s balls carefully, uncertain if he likes it.  

Sinbad moans and spreads his legs wider, so Ja’far figures his attentions are well-received.  He sits up and splays his legs out, propping Sinbad’s thighs over his own and lifting his hips slightly.  He keeps one hand around Sinbad’s hardening erection, and starts trailing the other slowly towards his ass.  At the first brush over his anus, Sinbad inhales sharply and his cock twitches in Ja’far’s hand.  

Figuring there is little point in prolonged teasing, at least this time, Ja’far lubes his index finger and slides it gently but fairly quickly in, immediately realizing how  _ hot  _ it is inside Sinbad.  It’s always easy to forget how warm the human body runs, through the barrier of skin, but now it is easy to tell that it is feverish and tight inside Sinbad, and Ja’far shudders as he thinks of what it will be like to put more than just his fingers inside.  He starts rolling his finger gently, though it is a bit of a strain against stiff muscles, and slides it slowly in and out.  

It feels like only a crude mimicry of lovemaking, but Sinbad groans happily and starts rolling his hips with Ja’far’s tiny thrusts.  Even though it has been a long time, in a sense, Sinbad is clearly more familiar with these movements than Ja’far is, and Ja’far takes comfort in the fact that at least someone is certain of what they are doing.  

Sinbad abruptly ceases his movements and goes limp against the bed.  He exhales a long sigh, relaxing as much as possible.  “Another finger,” he says.  “I want to feel more stretched out inside.”

Ja’far adds more lube and slides his middle finger in, as well.  Sinbad’s anus contracts against the larger size, then relaxes again while Sinbad rolls his hips, urging the fingers in deeper.  

“I know in theory what I’m looking for,” Ja’far murmurs.  “But you’re going to have to tell me when I find it.  I’m not a doctor, so I probably won’t know if I succeed.”  

Sinbad chuckles at Ja’fars uncharacteristic nerves.  “Oh, you’ll know; I can assure you of that.”  He reaches down to grab Ja’far’s wrist, and pushes it in a little farther.  “Mine is kind of farther in, so you might have to--”  

Sinbad cuts himself off with a yelp as Ja’far decides to problem-solve in his own way, simply plunging his fingers inside as far as they will go and stroking hard against the front wall of Sinbad’s rectum, waiting until he gets a reaction.  Less than halfway through his movement, he does, as Sinbad tightens hard around his fingers and pinches his lips together, trying to hold back a noise.  

Ja’far draws his fingers out a bit for better reach, then starts rubbing hard and fast over the gland he can just barely feel through layers of flesh.  Sinbad finally lets out a loud, sharp noise, and his hips twitch hard enough that Ja’far grabs one, if only to hold him still and not lose his position against Sinbad’s prostate.  Short noises give out to a long, low whine, and then soft cries of Ja’far’s name.  Sinbad’s breathing starts coming faster and louder, and Ja’far is so caught up in the reactions he can elicit, and the power he seems to have, that he doesn’t even really think about what this means.  

Suddenly, Sinbad grabs for his swollen erection, gripping hard and painfully around the base.  “Stop, Ja’far,” he gasps out.  “I’m going to come if you don’t stop.”  

Ja’far blinks in surprise, then stops, letting Sinbad breathe out a sigh of disappointment and relief.  “Sorry,” Ja’far says.  “I should have realized.”  

“It’s alright,” Sinbad laughs and takes a few more deep breaths before relinquishing his grip.  “You sure don’t mess around, do you?”  

Ja’far frowns.  “I should have been more thoughtful, or at least varied it, I suppose.  You just looked like you were enjoying it, and I got distracted watching.”  

Sinbad shakes his head.  “I always liked it, when you were forceful.  Plus, you were into it; do what you’re into.  I’m always a willing volunteer if you want to try something new.  If I don’t like it, I’ll tell you.”  

Ja’far nods and starts stroking slowly inside Sinbad again, before Sinbad grabs his hand.  

“Ah, maybe not right now, though.”  Sinbad bites his lip, clearly a bit ashamed.  “Stamina isn’t really my strong suit at the present moment, especially not with you.”  

“Oh,” Ja’far says.  “Ok.  But I should probably put another in, or it’s going to be a bit painful to take me, I think.”  

“Maybe,” Sinbad agrees.  “But I don’t know if I can handle that much longer, at the moment.  Even if it hurts, you shouldn’t tear anything, and I like it that way, anyway.  Just put it in like this.” 

Ja’far decides to take Sinbad at his word, and pulls his fingers out slowly, wiping them clean on a tissue.  He crawls up the bed to kiss Sinbad heavily, and give him a few more moments to calm, letting Sinbad suck a dark bruise onto his neck.  Then he sits back up, and Sinbad bends his knees to plant his feet on the bed, spreading his thighs wide.  Ja’far drips lube onto his asshole, apologizing when Sinbad flinches at the cold liquid, then slicks up his own cock.  

“You sure?”  Ja’far feels obligated to give one final check.  

Sinbad stares at his cock hungrily and licks his lips.  “I have never been so sure of anything in my entire life.”  

That is all the reassurance Ja’far needs.  A thousand fantasies he’d never thought he’d get to actually live out have him so hard he’s practically aching, and for the first time in his life, there is more to it than just lust.   He nudges the head of his cock against Sinbad’s slightly gaping anus, and gasps softly.  Ja’far nearly goes slowly, but decides he is done waiting, and Sinbad said he liked it rough, so pushes inside in one hard thrust.  

Sinbad throws his head back and yells loudly enough that Ja’far has no doubt his neighbors heard, though at the moment he’s mostly just worried he actually  _ did  _ hurt Sinbad, until strong legs wrap around his waist and Sinbad just drags him in up to the root.  

“Finally!” Sinbad shouts again, leaving Ja’far a bit perplexed at the volume.  

“Sin?  Are you alright?”  

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to  _ fantasize for years  _ and be unable to even touch yourself?”  Sinbad doesn’t wait for an answer.  “It’s absolute  _ torture _ .”  He yanks hard with his legs, prompting Ja’far to tip his torso over so he can look at Sinbad’s face.  “I am so very, very alright.  Your neighbors are probably going to look at you funny, so apologies in advance, but just take me hard.    No one has just  _ had  _ me in so long.”  

With Sinbad’s legs keeping their hips together, Ja’far is free to plant his hands and do just that.  He’s never been the domineering type, when it comes to sex, but Sinbad’s request and the look of near-delirium on his face sends a powerful rush through Ja’far’s veins, and his cock twitches eagerly inside him.  

Carefully, he pulls out as far as he can without slipping out, then mimics his first thrust, and slams back inside.  A harsh cry leaves Sinbad’s chest, and Ja’far repeats it.  Every hard slap of their hips together is accompanied by a curse or a wordless shout, but Ja’far can’t spare a thought for the neighbors any longer.  He starts moving faster, keeping his thrusts shorter but no less deep.  It is terribly gratifying for Ja’far, who can feel his entire length enveloped in slippery, squeezing muscle, but he’s a bit worried it’s not so enjoyable for Sinbad, who is not receiving any stimulation to typically pleasant areas.  

One look down clears up this concern, however, as Sinbad meets his eyes and then claws into Ja’far’s forearms, tipping his head back against the pillows, eyes shut tight.  “God, Ja’far, I’ve wanted you for so long.  I barely even remembered what this was like, but now you’re inside, and it feels so good I  _ hurt _ .”  He stops speaking to pant and gasp as Ja’far keeps up his pace.  ‘Just fuck me until I can’t stand, until I’m crying, until I--”  Sinbad gives up on words as he feels his stomach starting to tighten, and wails helplessly at the ceiling, simply letting everything fall limp except for his legs keeping his hips in place.  

Ja’far knows that Sinbad will come if he touches his cock, and knows Sinbad doesn’t want that.  But he wants to give him some sort of relief, and he can’t hit Sinbad’s prostate in this position, no matter how pleasurable it is for Ja’far to be so far inside.  

So Ja’far stops for a moment, long enough to pull out of Sinbad (at which Sinbad makes a terribly betrayed noise) pry his legs off, and roll him over onto his belly.  Ja’far slides back inside, and he can tell from the way Sinbad’s mouth flies open and his eyes draw wide, though no sound but a hiss of air can be heard, that he’s achieved his goal.   He moves in short, hard strokes, in and out, hitting Sinbad hard and fast in a way that makes him screech or fall helplessly silent in uneven intervals, just trying to get him to finish.  

Sinbad’s hips are barely moving, no stimulation to his cock other than pressure against the bedsheets, letting Ja’far be the only source of pleasure, and yet Sinbad does come early, a bare few minutes after Ja’far has entered him.  Ja’far tries to come with him, but just isn’t there quite yet, so he stays still as Sinbad’s body grasps around him, his fingers twitching and eyes shut tight as he whimpers pathetically, trying to stop himself from crying at finally achieving the feeling he has missed for so long.  He even breathes out a couple relieved “thank gods” in time with the rhythmic clenching of his muscles.  Finally, he stops spurting come, and a few moments later, his body stops squeezing around Ja’far inside him, and Sinbad relaxes with a relieved sigh.  

Ja’far shifts Sinbad onto his side, and thumbs under his eyes gently to wipe a few tears that managed to escape despite his efforts, giving him quick kisses in between Sinbad’s loud gasps for air.  Once his body finally calms again, Ja’far starts pulling out, intending to finish himself off.  

Sinbad throws his suspended leg around Ja’far’s hip and rolls onto his back, Ja’far nearly slipping out before Sinbad clamps his thighs around his hips, dragging him back in and keeping him in place.  “It’s fine,” he says quietly.  “Keep going.”  

Ja’far is vaguely impressed at the maneuver, but mostly just concerned, so he tries to push Sinbad’s legs back open, to no avail.  “That’s just going to be uncomfortable for you.  Let me go.”  

“No,” Sinbad pouts.  “I’ve missed you inside me.  It always feels like too much after I’ve come, but then it feels so nice when you’re done and I can finally relax, all gooey and warm.”  

Ja’far frowns at him, but can’t escape his grasp, anyway, so eventually gives in.  “If you’re certain, I guess.”  

As soon as Ja’far starts moving again, Sinbad tightens down dramatically with a pained groan, and Ja’far slows.  

“No,” Sinbad insists, “Keep.  Going.”  

Dubiously, Ja’far picks up his pace, and Sinbad pinches his eyes closed, legs shaking as they squeeze hard around Ja’far’s hip bones, toes curling.  Sinbad is twitching erratically and panting for air, and Ja’far knows he must be terribly over-sensitized right now.  But before Ja’far can stop and insist that this doesn’t need to happen, Sinbad sits up long enough to grab for Ja’far’s shoulders and drag him down.  He bites hard into Ja’far’s collar bone, and claws red and possibly oozing furrows into pale shoulders, and Ja’far realizes that in some bizarre way, Sinbad must truly  _ like _ this.  He is unbearably tight, body occasionally pushing against Ja’far to try and expel him, all while Sinbad grabs onto Ja’far and forces him further in.  

“Inside me Ja’far,” Sinbad pants.  “I want to feel it inside.”  

Ja’far groans at the desperate request, and finally comes at the thought of it, crumpling against Sinbad as his hips spasm, eyes shut tight, mouth slightly open and panting harshly.  Looking down, Ja’far can see his own abdomen twitching, his cock buried deep inside Sinbad, and he can feel his cum oozing around him.  It should be gross, but Ja’far’s body has other thoughts, and it just makes him shake harder.  

Sinbad sighs happily and melts into the bed once again, breathing hard and wrapping his arms around Ja’far’s back, feeling warm and satisfied all over, muscles and ass burning from all the tension he had been holding.  Finally, he can relish in the pained satiation of the act, the relief one feels after finally resting from a long run.  “See?  Told you I’d like it,” Sinbad grins against the top of Ja’far’s head.  “Plus, isn’t it nice to come inside, no condom or anything?”  

Ja’far takes a shaky breath and slowly lowers himself onto Sinbad’s chest.  “It was… weird.  Good, I guess, but I’ve never done that before.”  And he’s becoming increasingly aware of how dirty it is.  He heaves a sigh and finally stops quivering.  “Maybe you like it now, but you’ll regret it later.  We’ve got errands to run.”  

“Definitely won’t,” Sinbad retorts.  “I can squeeze down later and feel sore, maybe even how slippery I am inside.”  

“Gross,” Ja’far laughs before hauling himself off of Sinbad and pulling out so he can lie next to him on the bed.  “Though I should have expected you to be such a pervert, I suppose.”  

“You have  _ no  _ idea,” Sinbad grins, rolling over to kiss Ja’far.  “Though I do admit, I’m not usually that loud or talkative; so sorry, that sort of came out of nowhere.”  

Ja’far wraps his arms around broad shoulders and kisses him back.  “That’s alright, it was kind of hot.  And I’m usually much gentler, but like I said, fuck hard and get it out of our systems.”  

Sinbad props himself up on his elbows.  “God, I can’t believe I wanted to  _ wait _ .  After thousands of years of sexual frustration, at that.”  

“Any time you need to work out some of that frustration, consider me present and accounted for,” Ja’far laughs and pulls Sinbad down against his chest, smiling broadly into his neck and sweaty hair.  “It’s so much more fun, and feels so much better, with someone I actually care about.  I didn’t think I liked snuggling after, but I believe I have changed my mind.”  

“Good, because I plan on being terribly clingy,” Sinbad rumbles into his neck.  

Ja’far bites his ear and Sinbad licks his cheek in retaliation, and they giggle and tumble around for a few minutes, until Ja’far becomes aware that in the process they’ve smeared cum and sweat everywhere, and the stickiness becomes more apparent than the warmth and affection.  He pushes Sinbad off of him, and stumbles out of the bed.  

“I’ll change the sheets later.  But we’re showering now.”  

Sinbad grumbles at having to get up, but eventually follows after Ja’far.  Then he feels a mixture of semen and lube dripping down his thigh, and is suddenly less hesitant to clean up.  

Ja’far has no bath tub, and his shower is small and decidedly cramped with two people in it, but it is oddly enjoyable to have to nearly embrace every time one of them wants to reach for shampoo.  Sinbad likes running his soapy hands over Ja’far’s sides and watching him giggle when it tickles, and Ja’far likes massaging shampoo through Sinbad’s long hair, even if chunks of it get stuck to both of them and cause a tangled mess, now that it is heavy and wet.  

The best part about it is that neither of them are shy.  Sinbad is slightly abashed, but not truly embarrassed, at having to use the the shower hose a bit creatively to clean out the mess inside him.  Ja’far doesn’t laugh, and instead just uses the opportunity to rub conditioner through Sinbad’s hair.  He drips water as he reaches outside of the shower for a comb, and starts running it through long, tangled hair as Sinbad squats down to clean himself out.  

“This is so much easier in an actual bath,” Sinbad complains, and Ja’far just hums and pushes wet, purple bangs out of his face, slicking them back with water.  

Finally satisfied with his cleanliness, Sinbad scrubs his hands with soap once more, then stands up.  He puts the shower hose back in its mounting and hugs Ja’far to his chest, trying not to dissolve into tears once more, focusing on the warm water beating against them.  

“I shouldn’t be wasting this much water,” Ja’far mumbles eventually.  

Sinbad chuckles slightly, and turns the shower off.  He grabs for towels and they both dry themselves with the old, mismatched articles.  They eye each other assessingly, and at some point it becomes clear that they aren’t content to separate and go about the day yet, so Ja’far yanks the sheets off of his bed and grabs some blankets from the couch and closet.  He makes a pile of them on the bare mattress pad, and Sinbad joins him in a dazed huddle.  

It is a bit surprising to Sinbad, who has so many memories of being with Ja’far, but no recollection of anything like this.  It is warm and soft and slightly sleepy, and there is nothing life-threatening to attend to, not even anything terribly urgent.  Sinbad’s damp hair is tangling everywhere, so Ja’far wraps a blanket over his own shoulders and sits behind him, where he promptly braids Sinbad’s hair into a loose but secure plait with practiced ease, tying it at the bottom.  He latches onto Sinbad’s back, then, and Sinbad feels rather like a mother koala, before flopping into the pile of blankets.  

Ja’far crawls and claws all over Sinbad until he can gather the larger man (mostly) into his arms.  “I’ve got an alarm set for nine-thirty, which is over two hours from now,” Ja’far says quietly.  “Go back to sleep.”  

Sinbad tries to disentangle himself from Ja’far so that the latter can sleep properly, but Ja’far grabs on tighter.  “Stay.  I think I’ll be alright, just trying to take a nap like this.”  

Sinbad grabs Ja’far’s hand, one wrapped around his upper arm, and presses a kiss to the top of his palm.  “I won’t be hurt if you need space,” he says.  

Ja’far hums in agreement, but much to Sinbad’s surprise, he is asleep again within minutes, snoring softly into the back of Sinbad’s neck.  

Sinbad has no trouble following.  He focuses on the general physical contentedness, and imitates Ja’far’s breathing pattern.  Before he knows it, he’s asleep.    
  


* * *

 

Despite the ease with which Sinbad had risen earlier, getting him out of bed a second time proves to be a much greater challenge.  Ja’far would have no problem leaving him be, given how exhausting the adjustment must be, but he at least needs Sinbad to pick out his own clothes.  After much tugging, pushing, cajoling, two instances of Ja’far getting dragged back into the bed and having to fight his way free, and finally just stealing the blankets, Ja’far manages to get Sinbad vertical.  At which point, Sinbad had tried to follow him into the kitchen and run straight into the counter, accustomed to being able to walk through whatever he pleased.  He glares at the faux stone countertop with betrayal, and Ja’far laughs.  

“You’ll have as many mysterious bruises as I do, before long.”

Sinbad rubs at his sore hip.  “I sure hope not.  Maybe they won’t show up since I’m not whiter than a bedsheet.”  

Ja’far sticks his tongue out in response.  “Just don’t go walking into any walls too conspicuously.”  

“I’ll try.”

Ja’far bends over to rummage in the refrigerator, looking for something easy to cook for breakfast.  “What do you feel like?” he asks

“Uh, I’m not really that hungry.”  

“Do you even remember what it feels like, to be hungry?”

“I think so.”  Sinbad has had enough years of hunger that he thinks he’d know if it was a problem.

“Well I’m going to disagree and make you eat something anyway.”

Sinbad’s lips tilt slightly.  “I know better than to fight you when you’re determined to mother someone.  You pick, though.  I don’t want anything in particular.”

“I don’t ‘mother,’” Ja’far grumbles.  “I just care.”

“Ok.”

Ja’far glares at the clearly teasing tone, but lets it go, taking the easy route and grabbing the half-empty carton of eggs in his refrigerator.  “Do you want cheese?”

“Uh, I think so?”  Cheese did not come out of plastic packages the last time Sinbad ate it.

Ja’far holds up a green produce bag.  “Peppers?”

“Knock yourself out.  I’ve never eaten bell peppers before, but I’m not a picky eater.”  

Shrugging in acceptance, Ja’far goes about the rote task of neatly dicing vegetables, trying to suppress the sudden onslaught of concern at just how severe an adjustment this might be, and dumps them into a pan with oil.  

Sinbad watches for a while, taking mental note that Ja’far is no less skilled with knives than he was before, and then picks up a pen sitting on the counter and clicks it, examining the tip critically.  He then clicks it closed, then open once more, closed again, and repeats the process in quicker and quicker succession.  

“Would you quit that?” Ja’far snaps, shoving his spatula forwards a bit too hard with a scraping noise.

Sinbad continues frowning at the tip of the pen, then grabs for a pile of sticky notes to scribble on, hands a bit clumsy.   “Beats quills and dipping ink,” he concludes.  

“I should think so.”  Ja’far watches Sinbad go back to scribbling until the sticky note is full, peel it off, adhere it to the counter, and then proceed onto another one.  He can’t tell what exactly he’s doing, but decides if it keeps Sinbad occupied until the eggs are finished, it’s worth sacrificing a few post-its.  By the time he’s done, there are a dozen neon notes stuck to the counter, and Ja’far peers at them as he shoves a plate of eggs under Sinbad’s nose.  Each note is covered in varying degrees of clumsy scrawl, a few languages Ja’far can read, a few more he recognizes, and some he’s never seen before.  “What are you doing?”

Sinbad takes the plate and sets it down.  “I can read and I can speak, but I’ve never written most of these.  Some alphabets are harder than others, to move my hand correctly.”  

“Better at it than I would be.”

He shakes his head.  “I’m going to have to relearn a lot of things.”  

“You’ve got time, don’t worry about it for now.”

“Well I’ve got to get on it sometime; you can’t support me forever.  No offense, but you barely support yourself.”  

Ja’far laughs and rounds the counter to give his shoulder a quick squeeze.  “While I appreciate the newfound work ethic, take it one day at a time for now, Sin.  As long as you don’t eat me out of house and home, it won’t be much different.”  

“If you say so,” he answers dubiously.

“I do say so.  Start with just eating your food for now.”

“Of course, I could never turn down such lovingly prepared omelettes,” Sinbad teases.  

Ja’far crosses his arms and pouts slightly.  “It’s the only thing that’s easy, cheap, and healthy.  Eat it.”

“Yes sir,” Sinbad chuckles, and carefully cuts a section of omelette off with his fork to put it in his mouth.

Satisfied Sinbad is doing as he’s told, Ja’far does the same, shoveling food into his mouth quickly and without any particular relish.  After too many seconds of conspicuous silence, he looks up at Sinbad once more.

“You really do need to eat more slowly.”

Ja’far pauses long enough to squint at him.  “Are you crying?”

“No!”

“Your eyes are watery.  I didn’t put anything spicy in there.”

“They are not!”

“Yeah they are.  I don’t care if you need to cry, Sin.”

“I hardly need to cry over a mediocre omelette.”

“Hey!” Ja’far protests.

Sinbad grins at him and shoves another mountain of food in his mouth instead of continuing bickering.  

Ja’far sighs in resignation, scrapes his plate, and gives it a quick rinse before putting it in a rack to dry.  When he finishes, Sinbad is still eating, eyes on the tabletop.  “Hungry after all?”

He just nods in response, mouth full.

“Figured as much.”

Sinbad finishes chewing and swallows.  “I forgot.  I forgot how good food tastes when you’re hungry.  I think I forgot I was hungry at all.”  

“I’m sure you’ll remember quickly.”

“Especially if I have you around to cook for me,” Sinbad grins.

“Don’t count on it.”  Ja’far doesn’t plan on becoming a housewife.

Sinbad shuffles over to the sink to wash his plate, pausing to turn the blue, liquid soap over in the bottle a few times.  “I was joking.  I can cook, too.”  

“Are you sure?”

“I mean, as soon as I figure out how to turn the stove on.”  

“This is….going to take more patience than I assumed.”

“I know how!  I’ve been around a lot longer than you,” Sinbad protests.

“I mean, you  _ know _ , but you’ve never actually like...done...a lot of things.”

“I’ll figure it out,” Sinbad replies with confidence.

Ja’far snorts.  “I know you will.  I’m just wondering how much I’m going to have to pay in damages while you learn.”  

“I’m not that bad!  And I know how to respect other people's’ belongings.”

“Funny, I seem to recall you blasting apart entire sections of the palace often enough.”

“That’s different.  The palace was  _ my _ belonging,” Sinbad protests.

“Your belonging that  _ I  _ had to clean up and get contractors for.”  

“Someone had to keep construction workers in business.”

Ja’far’s mouth tips up in a begrudging smile.  “Just don’t go blowing out my walls on accident.  My landlord will not be forgiving.”  

“I will try my best,” Sinbad agrees with a mock salute.  

Ja’far takes the dripping plate from his hands and sets it aside to dry.  “I will hold out hope that there’s only so much damage to be done without magic.”  

“Let’s not find out.”

“Good plan.”  Ja’far pokes Sinbad in the chest.  “Go get dressed and brush your teeth.  We need to get going before I lose momentum.”  Or gives into his urge to just flop back into bed and hold onto Sinbad and never let go.

* * *

Only dressed, clean, and out in the light of day does Ja’far realize a new element of challenge to this errand run: Sinbad is going to attract a lot of attention.  

“Can you at least put your hair up?” Ja’far asks.

“Huh?  Why?”  It’s out of his face, and that’s all Sinbad cares about.

“Because you have practically fluorescent hair down to the floor, and everyone in a mile radius is going to get blinded staring at it.”  

Sinbad tugs his ponytail over his shoulder and pouts.  “That’s not my problem.”

“You’re right, you’ll probably like it.  Which means it’ll be my problem, trying to get anything done with people staring.”  

“Well, I like my hair like this.”

“I’ve noticed.”  One would have to like it, to keep the same hairstyle for so long.  “Can’t you just...cut it, a little?”  Or put it in a bun, or a braid, or anything more subdued than trailing behind him like a particularly gaudy flag.

“No!”

“Just put it up, would you?” Ja’far gripes.  He’ll fight the haircut battle later.  

Sinbad frowns disagreeably.  “Fine.”  He strips the tie from his hair and puts it in his mouth, pulling his mass of hair higher onto his head, into a messy ball.  Once satisfied with his arrangement, Sinbad grabs the tie again, stretches it in his hand, and it promptly flies off his fingers and down the cement stairs.  

Ja’far can’t help but laugh at the confounded expression on his face.  

“Don’t laugh!  I told you this morning, just get me some string or something and I can do it fine.”

“Too much technology for you?”

“Shut up, Ja’far.”  

Ja’far snickers a bit longer, but retrieves the tie for him.  He marches up behind Sinbad, wresting his hair from his hands.  “Just let me do it.” 

Sinbad relinquishes his grip, wincing as Ja’far takes the opportunity to pull it far tighter than Sinbad had done.  “Don’t you dare give me a ballerina bun.”

“Give me some credit.  I’ve got sisters with much thicker hair than you.”  He still makes a mental note to get sturdier elastics at the store.  “And you’ve got too many little fuzzies to fit in a bun anyway.”   After a few moments of twisting, pulling, and more complaining than is strictly necessary, Ja’far is satisfied with his handiwork.  He pats the bun and lets go of Sinbad’s head.  “There you go.”  

Sinbad pets over it self-consciously.  “They’re not ‘fuzzies,’ they’re layers.”  

“Sure.  Let’s just get you and your layers in the car.”   

He mutters disagreeably, but follows Ja’far without further complaint at the promise of a new activity, snatching the keys from Ja’far so he can push the button to unlock the car.  Once settled, Sinbad goes straight to pushing as many buttons as he can, finding the way they click under his fingers satisfying.  He’s distracted enough that he jumps as the car starts, unnatural vibrations felt through the floor and seat.

“Sorry.”

“It’s alright.”  He tilts his head back as they start moving.  “Normally I have to focus so hard on staying in a moving car.”

“Really?”

“Uh, yeah.  If I don’t pay attention and fix my acceleration to a point, then it will drive right through me.”  

Ja’far frowns.  “I guess that makes sense.”

“Don’t need to focus now, at least.”  Though it is a bit disconcerting to feel the speed of the car in his gut.  “I’m going to need to learn to drive, eventually.”

“One day at a time,” Ja’far reminds him.

“So you keep telling me; which is a bit hypocritical coming from you, I might add.”  

“Even I couldn’t plan for this one.”

“I suppose not.  At least I’ve got you; you were always much more level-headed.”

Ja’far snorts.  “Hardly.  I don’t think you of all people need a reminder of my temper.”

Sinbad waves his hand dismissively.  “Yeah, but in a crisis you were always the most calm and prepared.”  

“This hardly qualifies as a crisis.”  Unusual, certainly, but not catastrophic.  

“Try telling my head that,” Sinbad grumbles.  “Feels like it’s about to split open.”

“Do you need some ibuprofen?  If it’s really bad, we can go back and I’ll go get things.”  

Sinbad shakes his head, trying to dislodge his disorientation.  “No, no.  I’m fine, and I want to go.  It’s not a headache just...total existential confusion.”  He’s varying between barely remembering his body is there and being able to feel every hair on his arms, and it’s a rather overwhelming experience.  

Ja’far releases one of his hands from the steering wheel in order to grab Sinbad’s, rubbing his thumb gently over his knuckles.  “Understandable.  We can make it quick.”  

Sinbad takes a deep breath in and out, tightening his grip on Ja’far’s hand before bringing it up to his cheek, leaning into it.  “I’ll be fine with something to distract me.  There’s a lot to see, and I like seeing new things.”  

“Nothing you haven’t seen before or can’t see again later.”  

“I’ve seen it, but not really actually….experienced it.  I want to.”

Ja’far brings their hands back down to the console.  “Alright, but let me know if you need anything.”  

“ _ Anything _ ?” he asks with a leery grin.

“Remind me why I’m trying to be nice to you.”  

“Because you love me.”  

“Against my better judgment.”

* * *

 

Ja’far is caught halfway between endeared amusement and frustration as he watches Sinbad meander through stores.  Normally an efficient shopper, he’s forced to slow down in order not to lose him as he insists upon picking up and practically fondling almost everything he sees.  Fabrics, plastics, packaging, food, and stickers all capture Sinbad’s enthusiastic examination, and Ja’far has to keep an eye out for store attendants who might find his behavior suspicious.  The slow progress is irritating, but it’s equal parts pleasant to see Sinbad’s childishly bright curiosity in full force, something Ja’far had seen less and less of as he got older and had less time to indulge him.  

“At some point you’re going to have to stop playing and actually find something to wear,” Ja’far finally comments.

Sinbad ignores him in favor of sniffing a candle.  “Everything is so plasticky.  And smells so strongly.  Or has so much sugar.”  

“Welcome to late capitalism.”

“No need to be a downer, I was just observing.  Let me have a little fun before I start feeling guilty.”  

“I’m glad you’re having fun, I just want to be home before dinner.”  

“Oh.”  Sinbad pauses to look around, and realizes more time has passed than he had assumed.  “Sorry.  It’s all just very interesting.”  

Ja’far takes the candle he’s still holding and puts it back on the shelf, bumping against Sinbad’s side in reassurance.  “Don’t apologize.  I’ll just have to...get you a bus pass or something, so you can explore later.  You’ll have plenty of time while I’m gone.”  

Sinbad has a sudden realization.  “I guess I’ll have to find things to do besides follow you, now.”  

“That you will, since I don’t think the distraction would be welcome in my classes.”  Ja’far chews on his lip thoughtfully.  “Until I can get everything in order, I guess I need to get you a phone, first.  In case something happens.  And a wallet and some cash, I guess.  And I’ll have to make some calls about papers before I can get you ID…” he trails off, frowning at the floor and muttering to himself.  

Sinbad purses his lips.  “I’m fine for now, just do what’s easy.  I’ve kept myself entertained this long, I can wait a while.”  

Ja’far shakes his head and takes a decisive breath.  “It’s better to just get as much done today as we can.  I work better that way.  Phone first,” he decides, figuring that will be one of the more painful and expensive experiences, and it’s best over and done with.  

“Alright task master, lead the way.”  

Ja’far rolls his eyes, hesitates a moment, and then grabs Sinbad’s hand decisively, dragging him in the direction of the correct store.  

* * *

 

Sinbad’s general inexperience with technology actually made purchasing it easier, since he didn’t need much to satisfy his purposes.  Contrary to his expectations, Ja’far is finding clothes shopping much more of a struggle.

“I’m not wearing that,” Sinbad puts his foot down.

“Why not?”  This is turning into much more of a trial than Ja’far expected it would be, and his expectations hadn’t been low to start with.  He knew that Sinbad had rather eccentric tastes, but he doesn’t see anything wrong with the plain white t-shirt he is attempting to get him to try.  Everyone needs at least a few basics.

“Haven’t you read about their labor practices?  I’m not going to support sweatshops!”  

Ah, Ja’far had forgotten Sinbad’s rather ironclad principles.  “Well, I can’t exactly afford to buy you more ethically produced clothing.”

Sinbad immediately turns guilty.  “I’m sorry, I hadn’t really..”

Ja’far rolls his eyes good-naturedly.  “It’s fine.  Thrift shop it is, I guess.”  

“I can get over it.  We don’t have to drive somewhere else.”

“Nah, you’ll have fun there,” Ja’far disagrees.  “Besides, we have to drive to get groceries anyway, and it’s on the way.”  

“If you’re sure.”

“It’s cheaper anyway.  And you’ll like it better.”

Sinbad actually likes it far too much, Ja’far quickly finds out.  The weirder the thing he can find, the more excited about it he is.  This includes, but is not limited to: several large and feathery hats he jams on Ja’far’s head, two velvet capes Ja’far does not allow him to buy, paisley suit pants, red platform boots, a rather creepy statuette of monks holding hands, and a fire-starter with a handle of some unidentifiable bone.  

But his excitement is a bit contagious, and even if it takes a couple hours to find a workable- if eclectic - wardrobe, Ja’far has fun anyway.  Perhaps not quite as much as Sinbad, but enough that he lets him get away with a few items he sincerely hopes Sinbad never actually wears.

Ja’far finds he can’t help but be similarly indulgent with food, and reminds himself that at some point he is going to have to stop spoiling Sinbad.  It’s just hard to turn him down when he’s so excited about new things, and so they end up with twice as much as they realistically need, and taking nearly an hour longer than Ja’far’s usually-brief grocery runs.  

Finally finished, Ja’far holds back a sigh of relief as he maneuvers their cart into line.  There is an older couple in front of them, and while Ja’far absently notices their playful arguing and then ignores them again, Sinbad asks him for the car keys and then quickly rushes out the door.  Ja’far is a bit concerned, but assumes Sinbad just got overwhelmed by all the stimuli and needed to leave.  

However, when he approaches his car, bags in hand, it is to a different situation than he expected.  Sinbad has the passenger seat tipped back, nearly out of view, and is curled into a ball on top of it, face pressed into the seat below the headrest.  

Ja’far knocks on the window to let Sinbad know he is there, and then opens the driver’s side door to slip inside.  He drops bags awkwardly in the back seat, then directs his attention to Sinbad.

“You alright?”  

Sinbad nods, mashing his face further into the car seat.  

“Do you want to talk about it?”  Ja’far asks hesitantly.  

Sinbad shakes his head, and then after a few seconds, nods it.  

Ja’far does not know what that means, so just waits a few moments for Sinbad to clarify.  

“They were old,” Sinbad eventually says, muffled by the heavy fabric against his face.  

“Old?”  Ja’far questions, to make sure he understood correctly.  At Sinbad’s nod, he continues, assuming he was talking about the customers in line earlier.  “Uh, yeah.  They were.  They were kind of cute, I hope they have a lot of grandkids.  But it’s nothing to be upset over, they seemed quite happy.”  

Sinbad turns his head away from Ja’far, but enough out of the seat that he can be heard.  “No, I wasn’t sad.  It’s just… I’m going to be  _ old _ one day.”  

“That does tend to happen,” Ja’far agrees.  

“I’d just never imagined I’d live long enough to be old, before,” Sinbad mumbles.  “And then I assumed I’d never age ever again.”  

“I thought you didn’t like thinking about aging,”  Ja’far comments.  

Sinbad huffs.  “I don’t, or I didn’t, but now… I don’t know.  I don’t have to watch you age and die, at least.  I can age and die with you, the way people should.”  

Ja’far forces a laugh to try and abate the somber mood.  “That’s true, but a bit morbid.  Let’s just focus on getting groceries home, for now.  I have no plans to go drastically aging and dying any time soon.”  

“You better not.”

Sinbad holds himself together long enough to make it home without any major waterworks, but as soon as he’s in the door he drops his bags, grabs a towel, and flops face-first into the bed to cry.  

Ja’far puts away all the food that urgently needs refrigeration, kicks off his shoes, and goes over to Sinbad.  He pats him on the back, takes off Sinbad’s shoes and socks, then climbs onto the bed to curl against his side.  In what Ja’far senses is going to become a pattern, the affectionate contact just increases the frequency of Sinbad’s muffled sobs.  He pushes his forehead into one strong shoulder and rubs a hand up and down Sinbad’s spine, the other one carding through loose, fuzzy hairs at the base of his neck.  

After ten minutes, the sobbing turns into gasping hiccups, then only into sniffles.  

“Better?” Ja’far asks.  

Sinbad nods, and mumbles something inaudible into the towel covering his pillow.

“Didn’t catch that.”  

Sinbad tips his head to the side.  “I said that I’m going to have hair as gray as yours, one day.”  

Ja’far laughs, and rolls onto Sinbad’s back to hug him.  “You could always dye it, if you want, but I think you’ll look terribly attractive with salt and pepper hair.”  

“I’ll try and just let it happen naturally, but I’ll have to see how much it injures my vanity,” Sinbad mumbles through his stuffed nose.  Ja’far just nuzzles his cheek into Sinbad’s back.  “Why do you like being a baby koala?  You didn’t do that, before.”  

“What?” 

“You grab onto my back and snuggle it,” Sinbad clarifies.  “Why?”  

“A baby koala,” Ja’far giggles.  “And I don’t know.  It’s big and warm, I guess.  And it seems to make you feel better, when you’re sad.  I’m trying to make you feel safe and also give you space by not being in your face.”  

“...Make me feel safe,” Sinbad utters quietly.  

“Yeah.  I’m not sure how effective I can be, without a history of trained combat or lightning magic, but I still want you to be safe.”  

“You wanted that before?”  Sinbad asks.  

“Of course.”  Ja’far sounds a bit offended.  “I would have died for you.  I actually tried to a couple times, if I recall correctly.”  

“Please don’t get any ideas, it was hard enough the first time.”  Sinbad shudders.  “You always had faith in me, always followed me, always wanted my ideals to be reality, but I didn’t know you wanted  _ me _ safe.”  

“Ah.”  Ja’far understands where the miscommunication came across.  “Well, you were a lot more than just a person, then, for most people.  You were a symbol and a leader and a future.  And we all had to put the masses before ourselves.  So it was complicated, and different, and apparently didn’t translate into me being a baby koala.”  Ja’far giggles again.  “But I always knew you were human, Sin, even when you nearly weren’t.  And I wanted you safe.”  

Sinbad turns his head back into his pillow and makes a sad noise.  

“Don’t be upset about how it was before, it couldn’t be helped.  But you don’t have to be anything like that anymore.  Now I can just keep you safe from normal things, like bad days at work, damaging pasts, and old couples in grocery stores making you face your mortality.”  

A choked laugh comes out from Sinbad’s chest.  “I was so scared,” Sinbad admits, muffled into the comforter.  “I didn’t know what I’d do when you were gone one day.”  

“Found me again, I imagine.”

“What if I couldn’t?  What if you didn’t show up for a hundred years?”  He grabs Ja’far’s arm and holds it protectively beneath his chin.  “I don’t think I would have made it, if you died.”

“I’m still going to die one day,” Ja’far reminds him.

“Yeah, but so am I.  That’s….somehow much better than facing eternity alone.”  

Ja’far hums in agreement and rubs his hand up and down Sinbad’s side, just listening to him breathe for a few peaceful moments until his metabolism prompts him out of the bed.  “Want to help make dinner?” Ja’far asks, straightening his clothes.  “Or you can just stay there if you need to.” 

Sinbad huffs and forces himself up onto his elbows.  “I can do it.  You can’t baby me forever.”

“I still can for a little while, though.”

“Nah, I’ll feel better doing things, I think.”  

“Alright, you’re in charge of the salad, then.”

“Still don’t want me near the stove?” Sinbad asks with a teasing grin.  

“Maybe once you stop walking into things and crying all the time.”

“So mean…”

Ja’far laughs and kisses his cheek quickly, marching into the kitchen to rifle around for the right ingredients.  

* * *

 

Getting through dinner is more difficult than Ja’far anticipated, since all he can really think of, watching Sinbad concentrate and relish every bite of food, is how very much he wants him.  He creeps closer and closer throughout dinner, using his paltry skills at flirting as best he can until he’s succeeded in getting their legs together under the table.  Just when he’s finally achieved his goal, Sinbad stands up abruptly, making a show of clearing plates and scrubbing pans.  

Ja’far knows it’s done on purpose, and glowers pointedly at him.  

“What’s that look for?” Sinbad asks, feigning innocence.  “Did you want something?”  

Ja’far pouts, then gives him one last glare for good measure.  “Yeah.  But since you want to do dishes so badly, you can finish those while I go to the bathroom.”  With that he stands up and stalks off.

Sinbad laughs a little at his offense.  “Anything for you, darling,” he calls.  

Ja’far pops out of the bathroom briefly, flips him off, and then shuts the door.

Rituals completed, Ja’far decides, since his subtlety went unappreciated, to simply give up on it.  He marches up to where Sinbad is leaning over the counter poking at his phone, grabs him by the hips, and smashes their lips together.  Sinbad laughs against his mouth but makes quick work of wrapping his arms around Ja’far’s shoulders and kissing him back, forcing it into gentleness.  

This time it is not half so rushed and frantic.  They spend a long time kissing, touching, slowly pulling off layers of clothes as they move from kitchen to couch to bed.  Finally, Sinbad seems to be relaxing enough to just let his instincts take over, and he opens Ja’far up carefully and thoroughly.  Once he has stopped stressing, Sinbad can play Ja’far like a fiddle, and even without a touch to his cock, Ja’far has to stop him before he comes around his fingers.  Emotions running high, it takes all of his willpower not to just give in when everything feels so good and so right, and Ja’far forces himself to sit back and take a few calming breaths.  

“You alright?”

“Mm,” Ja’far hums his agreement.  “Just give me a sec.  Or this is going to end way before I want it to.”  

“And I thought I was going to be the one struggling with stamina.”  

Ja’far tries to scowl at him, but doesn’t succeed in making it truly critical, flushed and excited as he is.  “I just...I don’t know.”  It’s hard to put words to how being with Sinbad lights his every nerve on fire and makes his heart nearly beat through his chest.  

“Feel like you want to cry and laugh and stay here forever?” Sinbad attempts to finish.

“Yeah that.”  

“Oh good, not just me then,” he grins.

Ja’far leans in, closes his eyes, kisses him, and forgets about everything else but Sinbad’s breath on his lips and his hands grabbing his waist.  Eventually he grabs back, giving in to his desire to dig his nails into dark skin and lay physical claim.  Sinbad responds by dragging his hands lower and tugging Ja’far forward in his lap, rocking slightly as their hips come in contact.  Ja’far pulls back with a small pop, patience finally at its end.

Even with lots of stretching, lube, and all the will in the world, he still struggles to get Sinbad’s cock inside, having done this only once before, and not with a partner of Sinbad’s considerable size.  He sits up, spreading his own ass, while Sinbad holds his cock steady, but Ja’far can’t seem to manage to get the head inside.  

“Ja’far, you don’t have to--” Sinbad is cut off by his glare.  

Ja’far pushes down as firmly as he reasonably can, and circles his hips slightly, feeling the smooth, blunt flesh against his anus, searching for an angle that will allow entry.  Finally, he feels it starting to nudge barely inside, and Ja’far freezes where he is.  He takes a deep breath, relaxes as best he can, and sits down hard.  

Sinbad grunts and bites his own lip, and Ja’far gasps.  He only succeeds in getting a couple inches in, but Ja’far already feels more filled than he has ever been.  There is no hint of stinging, burning, or tearing, but his body positively aches where he is wrapped around Sinbad, stretched farther than he thought it could go.  Ja’far circles his hips a few more times, then starts slowly sliding down Sinbad’s cock.  Every time he feels it slip further inside, he jolts with surprise that despite his initial struggle, his body can take this in.  Eventually, Ja’far’s ass meets Sinbad’s hips, and he relaxes with a blissful sigh. He drapes his arms over Sinbad’s shoulders and presses their chests together, letting out a deep, reverberating groan.  

“I’ve never been this  _ full _ ,” Ja’far breathes.  

“Is that good?” Sinbad asks.  “That was more of a struggle than I expected.”  

“Very good,” Ja’far confirms.  “Exactly what I wanted.”  

Even so, it’s difficult to adjust to, so Ja’far sits there in stillness, taking deep breaths, experimenting with tightening and relaxing.  

Sinbad wraps his arms around him and kisses him delicately, hands roaming over thighs spread around his hips, with how Ja’far has seated himself in his lap.  

Ja’far tips his head onto Sinbad’s shoulder, circling his hips a bare fraction of an inch, just enjoying the fullness and the closeness.  “I could stay like this for hours,” he breathes.  

“I don’t know about hours,” Sinbad laughs breathlessly, “But I’m certainly happy for now.  You’re so small inside, I don’t know how long I can realistically go once I start moving, but for now just stay like this.”  Sinbad shifts his hands around Ja’far’s lower back, bringing him forward until their lower bellies rub, Ja’far’s dick between them, and Sinbad massages over Ja’far’s hips and back.  

Ja’far kisses him again, and for several minutes they do little but knead at each other’s lips, Ja’far shifting occasionally just to reinforce exactly who he has inside him.  His hands go to Sinbad’s shoulders, grabbing the muscle there and squeezing hard, massaging to release tension.  

They slowly melt further and further into each other, indescribably aroused, yet relaxed.  It’s nearly tantric in nature, and Ja’far really does consider staying like this for hours.  But finally his body starts complaining at being held open for so long, and Ja’far starts rocking his hips in earnest to end it before he becomes truly uncomfortable, rubbing against Sinbad’s torso as he does.  

He doesn’t have much control or leverage at this angle, but Ja’far seems to like being on top, and Sinbad certainly likes getting to hold him so close.  He grabs Ja’far’s ass and encourages him to tilt his hips just a bit more.  It makes his humping movements more difficult, but proves worth it when Ja’far jerks against him with a muffled cry.  

Sinbad moans in his ear, and bites down slightly on his shoulder, shifting his hips up to meet Ja’far’s movements.  He’s suddenly glad for his lack of leverage, since the desire to hold Ja’far down and take him would be too strong to resist, if he had the opportunity; and based on how much Ja’far had struggled already, that wouldn’t be good for his health.  He settles for digging his fingers into his ass, trying to encourage more aggressive movement.

Ja’far relishes in the possessive squeeze of Sinbad’s hands, and with every perfect slide, he can feel his own body squeeze down, muscles contouring tightly against Sinbad inside him, then releasing with a small pang of pleasure.  “Feel that?” Ja’far pants

Sinbad nods.  “Yeah, you like it.”  

Another shudder passes through Ja’far, stronger and faster this time.  “Gonna come soon.”  

“Oh good,” Sinbad laughs, more than a bit breathless.  “Because I’m losing the last strands of my self control.”  

“Just a little bit longer.”

“I’ll sure try.”  

Ja’far contemplates asking Sinbad to come outside of him.  He knows that Sinbad would do so gladly, and it would save Ja’far the hassle, but strangely, he wants to feel it.  It seems a bit more intimate, that way, and Ja’far can decide for himself if that is worth the mess or not in the future.  For now, he concludes that it is, with the warmth he feels building in his chest and practically leaking from his pores.  He wants to be as close to Sinbad as possible, even if that means a sticky, leaking ass.  

Sinbad is trying desperately to hold off his orgasm, biting his lip hard and panting through his nose.  He just wants to feel Ja’far come around him, which he won’t be able to enjoy if he comes first.  

“Come on, Ja’far, come on” Sinbad all but whispers.  “Just come on my cock.”  

Ja’far whimpers and starts riding him faster in short, hard movements, nudging the head of him against his prostate as fast and hard as he can.  “I want to, almost there, almost...”  

Sinbad hears the little plea, and decides he’s done waiting.  He grabs Ja’far’s dick and starts jerking quickly, simultaneously wrapping his other arm around Ja’far’s shoulders and shoving him down, hard.  

A sharp cry of surprise leaves Ja’far’s mouth, at being so full so quickly, then it gets cut off into a choking gasp as he suddenly loses control, struck by the sensation of not only the hand thumbing over his cock, but his own insides clenching around Sinbad, who he can feel nearly up to his belly button.  There are a few seconds where Ja’far knows he is about to come, that it can’t be avoided but it still isn’t happening, and Ja’far presses his own hands to his belly and whines softly, mind clicking off as the strange thought sends his body into convulsions, rocking hard and fast into Sinbad’s hand, finally feeling release.

At the first splash of Ja’far’s cum onto his chest, Sinbad drops everything to drag Ja’far close and bite into his shoulder, muffling a gratified shout.  The tightening around him brings tears to his eyes, and Sinbad finally lets himself go with a slightly pathetic sobbing sound.  The smooth ring of Ja’far’s anus is so tight, and Sinbad has been restraining himself for so long that he almost thought he couldn’t come; when he does it completely whites out his vision and sets his lower belly on fire as he empties himself into Ja’far for what feels like longer than his body should be capable of.

Ja’far breaks out into overwhelmed goosebumps as he melts against Sinbad, noticing the strange sensation of his balls feeling empty and his ass being full.  Sinbad grunts and twitches twice more inside him before he relaxes as well, breathing out a loud sigh and slumping against Ja’far’s shoulder.  

“That was so worth holding out for,” Sinbad breathes into his ear.  “Though when you first came, I thought I wouldn’t be able to, with how tight you got.”  

Ja’far thumps him on the back in protest.  “Don’t  _ tell  _ me things like that.”  He sits up and pulls himself off of Sinbad with a small noise, ignoring how everything feels slightly gooey, and rolling onto his side to tuck blankets around himself.  

Sinbad leans back against the pillows, then scoots over to grab Ja’far about the shoulders and throw a leg over his thighs.  “Why not?  It’s a compliment.  That was a really, really good orgasm; at least on my part.”  

“Because it’s weird, that’s why.”

“It’s only weird because you’re used to just exchanging thanks with a stranger and leaving.” Sinbad kisses Ja’far’s nose as he frowns.  “I was always clingy, but I intend to talk this time as well, so deal with it.”  

Ja’far just mumbles “whatever,” and sticks his face into Sinbad’s collar bone.  

“You’re not getting off that easy,” Sinbad laughs.  “You’re beautiful, you’re amazing, the sounds you make when I hit the right spots, the way your face looked when you finally took all of me--Ow!”  Sinbad breaks off when Ja’far bites him.  “Don’t be mean, I’m serious.  For someone who worries about lack of experience, you’re a natural.”  He pauses.  “Your turn, sharing time.”

Ja’far snorts and is silent for a moment.  “I’ve never actually come with someone inside me,” Ja’far finally admits.  “Let alone something in that far.”  

“Was it better, or worse?” Sinbad asks.  “I lost it a little, and I know you’re small and I’m not, so sorry if it hurt.”  

Ja’far shakes his head.  “No, it was good.  I didn’t know everything still clenched like that, so far up.”  He rubs his hands over where he’d felt the strange sensation earlier.  “And I didn’t think I would, but I kind of liked you cumming inside.  It was warm, and… affectionate, I guess.  Definitely a good orgasm, so don’t worry about that part.”  

“Mm.”

“I am going to dig a condom out next time, though.  I very much don’t want to get up right now, but very much need to.”  

“You know, I used to have a nice, hot bath waiting and ready twenty four hours a day,” Sinbad mumbles.

“Alas, the mighty have fallen, and now we must suffer the cramped showers of the plebeians.”

Sinbad harrumphs and hugs Ja’far tighter to his chest.  “Do it in the morning.”

“Ew, no.”  Ja’far struggles, and eventually Sinbad lets him up.  “You too.  It’s gross and you’ll get an infection or something.”

“No one had condoms before and we got on just fine.”

Ja’far just grabs Sinbad’s ankle and starts slowly dragging him off the bed.  “That’s nice.  It’s a miracle you didn’t die of syphilis.”  

Sinbad gives one last flail of protest and then gets himself the rest of the way up, whining the whole way.  

“Stop being such a baby, the bed will still be there when you get back.”

“Showering is much more of an ordeal for me than it is for you,” Sinbad tries to justify.  “And I’m tired.”  Really, really tired, now that he pauses to notice.  

“Just don’t wash your hair.  You’ve got to get up eventually to brush your teeth, anyway.”

“Yes, mom,” Sinbad jokes.

“Don’t be weird,” Ja’far scolds, hurrying to turn the shower on as he gets colder and colder outside of his bed.  

“Far too late for that.”  Sinbad follows him in, wrapping him into a messy kiss before any more protests can be made.

* * *

 

Movement wakes Ja’far up, and with bleary eyes he clicks on his phone to check the time, wanting to know if it’s worth trying to sleep again or not.  It reads 2:34 am, so he thunks it back on the table, rolling back onto his side.  This puts him in view of Sinbad’s back, and the probable cause of his current wakefulness.

“Sin, you awake?”

He gets a noncommittal noise in reply.

“I will take that as a yes.”  Ja’far shifts a bit closer to put a hand over his shoulder.  “You know you can wake me if you need something.”

Ja’far gets no answer, but he can feel Sinbad’s shoulder shaking once more, though he’s doing his best to hide it.  He snuggles a bit closer and breathes out against the back of his neck gently.  “What’s wrong this time?  Worrying about performance as you age?”  

A wet laugh leaves Sinbad’s chest, and he shakes his head before finally giving up to heavy breaths and tears dripping sideways down his face.  “I just… left this.  You, and my friends, and a warm, safe home.”

“I know.  It’s alright; there were things you had to do.”

“No!  You don’t understand.”  Sinbad pauses to take choppy breaths.  “You told me not to, and I knew you were right.  I went anyway!  I wasn’t trying to save anyone; I wasn’t even thinking of everyone I was hurting.  I just  _ wanted to _ .”  

“Sin--”

“My mom died because I was selfish, too!”

“She died because she was sick and no one had medicine, Sin.”

“But she died faster because I left!”

“She told you to leave.  She  _ wanted  _ you to leave.”  

“I should have stayed.  But I didn’t.  No, I had to go off and get all the glory.”   

Ja’far huffs in slight irritation against Sinbad’s neck.  “Sin, I know you’ve been around enough to see what it’s like, for young children to care for their parents.  A better part of a decade caring for someone who is supposed to be caring for you is  _ going  _ to give you issues.”  

“She was sick; it wasn’t her fault.”

“Of course not.  But I’m sure your mom wanted the best for you, and I’m sure she knew she was holding you back.  She wanted you to live life for yourself.”

“I still shouldn’t have left.”

“We all have to make choices.”

“Well I made some awfully selfish ones.”

“It’s important to make choices for yourself.”  Ja’far continues quickly when he can feel a protest building in Sinbad’s chest.  “I don’t think you realize just how  _ un _ selfish most of your choices were.”

Sinbad shakes his head.  “It was always about me.  All of you following me, working for me, giving up your dreams for me.  I took it and never even asked.”

“Have you ever considered that it was given willingly?”

“You were too young to even decide that, most of you.”

“So were you, living in a constant state of fear that not working hard enough would kill your only parent.  Not to mention having to watch the other one die for you.”

Sinbad flinches.  “Don’t put it like that.”

“What, you mean put it how it really was?  Life damages us, Sin.  It’s just what it does.  We do the best we can, and sometimes we make bad choices.  Foolish, stupid choices, even.  But it’s the best we can do, and doing something for yourself instead of the world or your friends or your parents is not wrong.”  

“It  _ is  _ wrong!  What I did to everyone, but especially to you, was  _ wrong!   _ And I can’t take it back.”  

Ja’far panics slightly as he feels Sinbad’s tremors increase, so does the only thing he knows how, pressing his cheek into a shoulder blade and running his hand up and down Sinbad’s arm.  “It’s ok, Sin.”

“It’s not ok!  I was going to kill you all, because I thought it’d be better, that  _ I  _ could do it better, but I was just--”  

“Sin,” Ja’far interrupts, managing to stop his increasingly frantic rambling.  Taking a deep breath in and out against Sinbad’s back, Ja’far just continues nosing into his shoulder.  He remembers chunks of their previous life oddly, half in visceral flashes, half in an almost  dreamy, detached documentation.  Ja’far  _ knows  _ that the end of Sinbad’s life had been distressing for the both of them, but every time he tries to put words to it, they slip out of his grasp.  He rests his hand gently on Sinbad’s shoulder, and says the only thing he can think of.  “I forgive you.  It really is ok.”  

“It’s not ok,” Sinbad repeats, a muddled whisper.  “It’s not.  You shouldn’t forgive me.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Ja’far scolds lightly, a thin smile against Sinbad’s neck.  

“You just don’t know what I did.  You can’t forgive me if you don’t know.”

“I do know, actually.  And I was absolutely, crushingly devastated.”  That much, Ja’far does remember clearly.  “I forgive you anyway.”  

“You don’t!  No one saw!”  Sinbad’s breath hitches and he nearly chokes around his next words.  “I killed myself.  Flew right into the sun on some mad whim, and left you all to clean up the mess I left behind.”  

Ja’far tries to hold back a slight huff of sardonic laughter, but fails.

“It’s not funny!  It’s true!”  

Ja’far kisses his shoulder with a slight scrape of teeth.  “I’m sorry.  It’s not funny; I’m just not surprised.  You’ve always been very impulsive, especially without me around.”  

“Ja’far--”

He claps a hand over Sinbad’s mouth.  “I don’t care what you did, what crimes you think you committed, what messes you left for me to clean up.  I  _ know you _ .  I always knew that you could hurt me; that’s just part of loving someone, and I forgave you before it even happened.  I forgive you still.”  

“I was going to kill you, Ja’far!  I made it back from the dead, and I thought what I should do was  _ kill everyone! _ ”  

“You were going to bring us back.”  Theoretically.  Ja’far isn’t quite sure how that was supposed to happen without any problems.

“I brainwashed the world into mass suicide!  No one even realized!”

“You seem to think that just because I was agreeing at the time, I didn’t know what was happening.”

“Of course you didn’t!  I didn’t give you a chance.”

“You overestimate your own powers, Sin.  I knew exactly what was happening; I was only sorry I couldn’t help you and stop it.”

Sinbad makes a noise somewhere between a cough and a sob.  “That just makes it  _ worse _ , that you knew what was happening to you.”  

Ja’far nuzzles his face into Sinbad’s neck, attempting to comfort.  “But it means I’m not lying, when I forgive you.  I know what you did, Sin, and I forgive you.”  

Sinbad gives no response other than tight, damp breaths.  

“We all make mistakes, Sin.  You’re only human.”  

All of a sudden Ja’far can actually  _ hear  _ Sinbad’s pulse skyrocket, with how close his head is pressed to his back.  The muscles under his cheek and hand tense, and Sinbad stops breathing with a choked-off noise.  His knees pull up to his chest, curling away from contact.  Ja’far rocks up onto his elbows to peer over Sinbad’s shoulder, and finds the pallor overtaking his face to be alarming.  

“Sin, what’s wrong?”  More than was already obviously wrong, that is.  “What did I say?”

When he gets no response other than twitching of tightly shut eyelids, Ja’far throws off his blankets and hurries to round the bed.  He crouches down on the floor to stare Sinbad in the face, but still gets no reaction.  Tentatively placing a hand on his shoulder, Ja’far speaks calmly.  “Sinbad, you’re alright.”  

The shallowest whistle of air through his nostrils is all Ja’far can hear.

Growing a bit desperate, Ja’far shakes at his shoulder.  “Sin, breathe!”  

Sinbad’s eyes snap open with a gasp, though they clearly aren’t seeing Ja’far in front of him.  He immediately curls into a tighter ball, and squeezes his eyes shut again as his whole body begins trembling with shallow breaths.  

Ja’far can do little but stroke softly over Sinbad’s head, thick hairs trailing through his fingertips.  He tries, briefly, to touch his shoulder once more, but it only sends Sinbad shaking harder, so he stops.  Ja’far watches dark hair slip between fingers that appear ghostly in the dim light, concentrating on keeping his own breathing from escalating, listening to the soft, pathetic sounds that occasionally leave tightly-sealed lips.  Ja’far knows better than to try and fight it, but doesn’t like being helpless.

Sinbad’s face relaxes first, ever so slightly; a deep breath inhaled through his nose and exhaled from lips that finally open with the force of it.  Ja’far lets his hand rest on Sinbad’s head, planting his other elbow on the bed to lean his weight onto.  “Sin?  I’m right here.  You’ll be alright.” 

Eyes open reluctantly, but there is recognition in them this time, when they look at Ja’far.  Sinbad’s hand curls over his, dragging it to his chest as ragged breaths continue to slowly even out.  

Ja’far uses his spare hand to brush the wrinkles out of Sinbad’s forehead before stroking his thumb over the sweat on his face.  Eventually, he stands up long enough to sit on the edge of the bed, a bit of an awkward angle with Sinbad still unwilling to relinquish the grip he has on his hand.  Ja’far grabs for the glass on the nightstand.  “Sit up a little and drink some water.  I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”  

Sinbad moves to sit up, regarding his hand with surprise when he tries to move it and finds it occupied, before unclasping his fingers.  He props himself against the pillows, still shaking sporadically.  Ja’far hands him the glass and wedges himself into the narrow space between Sinbad’s shoulder and the edge of the bed.  

Ja’far nudges up against his side, twirling a lock of hair around his finger.  “What’d I say?”  Because it almost certainly must have been something he said, or it wouldn’t have escalated that quickly. 

Sinbad shoves the glass against his mouth, forcing a tiny sip before he responds.  “That’s what he said,” Sinbad pants, “before I died.  I’m--I’m only human.  I can’t--”  

Ja’far smooths a hand over Sinbad’s hair as he fails to finish his sentence.  “I love that you’re human.  I’ve never been happier to have someone be human in my life.”  Tears sting at his eyes, with how passionately he means it.  “Don’t treat it like a consolation prize.  For one, I’m human too, and it offends me,” he says with forced levity.  “And for another, you should be proud of what you’ve done, despite being ‘only human.’”  

“It’s just… I can’t…”  
Ja’far grabs Sinbad’s free hand once more, rubbing across the palm with his own fingers.  “You don’t need any more of an explanation for why it bothers you.  Just breathe and drink your water.  We can sort it out later, if it even needs sorting.”  

Sinbad looks like he wants to protest, then breathes out a shuddering sigh before acquiescing and letting Ja’far massage gently over his hand.  Eventually he tries to reach over and set the cup back down, and Ja’far takes it to do it for him.  

“Better now?”

Sinbad flails slightly in response, not really trusting his words on the subject.

“You realize you are on one hell of an emotional roller coaster, right?”  

Sinbad tries to snort but fails with his teary congestion.  “Sorry.”

“It’s ok.  It was an observation, not an insult.  You’ve got to get it out somehow.”

“I think I spent so long as just a mind that I forgot how to feel.  So it’s just all coming out at once.”

“Whatever you have to do.  It just scares me when you don’t respond.”  

Sinbad interlocks their fingers.  “I think….it’ll be better next time.  And a bit better after that.  And so on.”  

“Sounds like a tentative plan.”  Ja’far drops his head onto Sinbad’s shoulder in response.  “Do you want space?  Or to get up…. Or go back to sleep?”  

“I want you not falling off the bed,” Sinbad assesses, finally noticing their position.  

Ja’far crawls over him and back to his side of the bed.  When Sinbad flops down onto the pillows, Ja’far follows.  He stares at a crusted tear track in the corner of Sinbad’s eye, and swipes at it.  

Sinbad blinks and scrunches his face in protest.  “Can you save your grooming until later?  Just let me hold you.”  

Ja’far gives up on his attempts and snuggles into his chest with a small smile, in spite of the less-than-enjoyable circumstances.  It’s still hard, to be anything but wired while in contact with another person, but Sinbad’s heart rate, now returned to normal levels, is a comfort.  Ja’far will stay up all night just to keep him calm, if he has to.  

“What did I do to deserve you?” Sinbad mutters.

“Kicked my ass and then saved it, if I recall correctly.  Though the memory is a bit spotty.”

Sinbad huffs.  “Maybe that earned me a few years.  I don’t know about the rest of it, though.”

Ja’far pushes up until he can bump the top of his head against Sinbad’s chin.  “Maybe I just wanted to stick around.  It’s not all about you, you know.”  

Sinbad feigns a shocked gasp.  “It isn’t?”

“Unfortunately, no.  You’re going to have to live and die with the rest of us, whether you like it or not.”  Ja’far nuzzles into the hollow of his throat.  “Selfishly, I’m glad.”

“I’m glad, too.”  Sinbad brings a hand up to cradle the back of Ja’far’s head.  “And glad I had someone to stick around until I learned better, even if that took a while.”

“I think most kids figure it out by ten or twelve.  Twenty, at the latest.  It just took you….a couple hundred times longer, I’m going to guess.”

“Yes, well.  You were always a much quicker study than me.”  

Ja’far can’t help but laugh.  “Give yourself more credit.  You got me through my childhood.  Twice.”  

“I wish I could take credit for that, but I think you owe that one to your mother.”  

Ja’far smiles a bit.  “That I do.  But you can’t tell your mom everything, and you meant a lot to to me, even when I was little.  Especially when I was little.”  

“Well...I’m glad I could help, I guess.”

He nods.  “Now it’s my turn to help you.”

“If you say so.”

Ja’far wraps Sinbad’s hair around his wrist and pulls slightly.  “I like helping.  And any time I spend with you is time well spent.”  

There is a moment of silence.

“That’s pretty gay, Ja’far.”

Ja’far turns to look at him in incredulity, sees the glimmer of humor on his face, and immediately drops his head with a sigh.  “I should never have let you look over my shoulder while I dick around on the internet.”

“ _ Dick  _ around,” he giggles.

“Sin,  _ stop _ .  You better be real fucking glad I  _ am _ gay.”  Ja’far acts annoyed, but is mostly just glad to hear him laughing and distracted rather than over-thinking, even if it’s at his expense.

“Oh I am.  Though I had my moments of doubt.”

“Like when?”  Ja’far can only ever remember having eyes for Sinbad.

“Like all the times you went for girls!  Which you did first both times, by the way,” he accuses.

“Well what else am I supposed to do?  It’s kind of what everyone tells me to do.  Including you, by the way, so don’t act so offended,” he teases.  “And girls are nice enough, I don’t have a special preference.”  

“Thus why I doubted.”

“Oh please.  I had a very large and blatant crush on you when I was younger.  Both times.”  And when he was older, but that’s a bit past discussing.

“Really?”

“I refuse to believe you’re stupid enough to not realize that.”  

“Well I was, the first time.  I didn’t even really know it was an option.  It wasn’t really a….thing.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s always been a thing,” Ja’far adds.

“I mean, yeah, it just wasn’t….”

“Talked about?”

“Basically.  So you know, I’m not exactly emotionally intelligent.  It took me a while.  And then this time I just...I wasn’t even real, you know?”

“I can assure you that didn’t stop me,” Ja’far mutters.

“Weird.”  

“And frustrating.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s alright.  Nothing we could have done.”  He tucks a hand firmly around Sinbad’s waist.  “And I have you now, so it all worked out.”  

“Don’t jinx it, we’ve still got a lot left to figure out.”

“Yeah.  But in the morning.”

“In the morning,” Sinbad agrees, muffling a yawn.  “When I can think clearly again.”

Ja’far grabs his phone, pulling the charging cord across his legs and tangling in the covers.  “Let’s just watch some boring Netflix documentaries.  That usually helps me be distracted enough to sleep.”  

“Netflix and chill.”

“You are just  _ full  _ of internet references tonight, aren’t you?  That’s already outdated and I hate you.”

Sinbad snickers, but snuggles back a little into his pillow as Ja’far clicks through various options.  “I like the approach of stupid, nihilistic humor in the face of trauma.  It’s not exactly a new tactic, but you guys have certainly taken it to a new level of comprehension.”

“I guess.”

“I like it.  It’s a good generational bonding technique.”  

“You sound like an old man.”

“I do not!”  Sinbad turns his hands over to inspect them, then rubs critically at his face.  “I’m not quite sure how old I am, but I’m definitely not into my thirties, yet.  Do I qualify as a millennial?  I want to be in on the memes.”

“Please stop talking,” Ja’far groans.  “You qualify as a millennial in that you’ve lived for millennia.” 

“Ouch.”

Ja’far hands Sinbad the phone.  “Just pick something and close your eyes.  I’m here if you need me.”  

Sinbad takes it, scrolling clumsily with his finger.  “Thanks Ja’far.”

“Mhm,” he acknowledges, eyes closed as he leans against Sinbad’s shoulder.

“I love you.  A lot.”

“Me too.”   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lord almighty that was a long one


End file.
